


A Candle in the Wind

by MoralitySucks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Gen, Hunting, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoralitySucks/pseuds/MoralitySucks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A church in a small town is boasting miracles that come at a terrible price and the Winchester brothers drive out to investigate. Amidst their usual hunting shenanigans, Dean comes to an important realization regarding his feelings towards Castiel. Humor, minor spooks and some romance. Light Dean/Cas</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna get steadily more and more shameless Dean/Cas, for right now you get exposition and delightful team banter. I'm obsessively writing this as close to a monster of the week episode as I can get, which means we start off with some mook getting harassed. Feel free to skip the first few paragraphs if it escapes your interest, the boys show up right after, I swear.

**Farmington, Arkansas**

There's a modest but respectable church nestled comfortably at the base of rolling foot hills that mark the outskirts of the tiny town. An enraged thunderstorm dominated the darkened sky, volleys of electricity tossed back and forth like battling banjos, the brawny bass of accompanying thunder demanding all of a person's attention. The steeple of the church reached mournfully upward, the flashing lightning dancing around its heavenly aspirations.

Inside the nearly abandoned building, Sister Ashley Christian stared in wonder up at the celestial light show. She was young enough and sheltered enough that fear was nothing but a buried, primitive emotion that she'd never really had to confront outside of walking past smoking teenagers in faux leather jackets outside the Gas n Go, so the biting wrath of nature right on her doorstep was met with nothing but contentedness at the pretty lights. She went about her rounds, cleaning up the mess left behind by the young mens choir and locking the doors behind her.

Turning off the light in the chapel, she crossed the neat grid of pews and headed for the wooden double doors . A soft sound stopped her in her tracks; she frowned, trying to process what she'd heard. There it was again. Like a dog scratching questioningly at a door, begging for entrance. She frowned and turned towards it. Sister Christian found herself staring at the empty, lonely looking confessionals tucked away in the back corner of the chapel.

_Scratch, scratch._

She advanced on it curiously, images of cute little stray kittens tumbling over each other filling her mind, and as if encouraged by her own thoughts, a quiet mewl accompanied the scratching. As she reached out for the handle to the confessional, the noises stopped. Frowning, she opened the creaky door and peered inside. Seeing nothing immediately apparent, Sister Christian stepped inside curiously.

The door slammed shut behind her with a bang, causing her to gasp and whip around, pushing against the door. A low growling came from the window connecting the two booths, and as Sister Christian flailed uselessly against the door, the confessional next to hers began shaking violently. Her scream was drowned out by an impressive peal of thunder.

_"My... chiiiiild."_ A grating voice called haltingly, seeming to come from every direction at once. _"T-teeeeell me of your siiiiinssss."_ The confessional gave another angry shutter, and Sister Christian screamed in fright, tears streaming down her face.

She was gripping her rosary so tight that she could feel the beads push unpleasantly against the bones in her hand; she closed her eyes and began praying out loud, doing her best to ignore the mayhem around her.

At the phrase 'Heavenly father', a click issued from the door and Sister Christian fell backwards, having cowered against the door. She tumbled to the carpeted floor outside, her habit tangling up in her legs as she scrambled to her feet and bolted for the exit. Behind her, the confessional ceased shaking and burst open with a wild eruption of wind.

Her hair flew about her head as she pried open the door and sprinted down the hall, pictures falling from the walls behind her and doors flying open of their own accord. She could see the entrance, the double doors next to a wide bay window that showed the rain lashed parking lot outside. Just as she reached out for the handle and felt the triumphant tickling of successful escape, she felt herself propelled forward and turned to see the window growing in size as she was thrown against it.

Her face smashed against the glass and she collapsed to the ground, tasting and smelling the blood pouring freely from her nose and several wounds. Her vision swam, and she blinked furiously against the urge to succumb to sweet unconsciousness.

Sister Ashley Christian rubbed her eyes and stared in awe at the miracle above her.

 

***

 

On a nearly forgotten highway two states over and four days after the 'miracle' in Farmington, the sun beat down mercilessly on the desert surroundings and reflected dazzlingly bright off a pristine '67 Impala winding its way purposfully through the hot afternoon.

The upbeat chords of Styx's _Too Much Time on my Hands_ filled the interior of the car, Dean Winchester drumming on the steering wheel along with the song as he drove. Sam sat next to him, long legs stretched out as far as they could go, which was surprisingly not very far at all considering the luxurious amount of leg room. Sam filled the passenger seat, and most of the bench for that matter, with various notebooks, maps, and a few ancient, recently stolen grimoires; he sat with a hand in his hair frowning at the silver notebook computer open on his lap.

Dean glanced at the rearview mirror, catching the less than ecstatic expression on his brother's face. "What's the sitch, Kim Possible?"

"How do you even know that reference?" Sam asked, earning himself a sour glance.

"I don't have to explain myself to you."

"Thank god, right?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Was there another miracle on 34th street or are you just really put out with a forum captcha?"

"Not all of us get as confounded by slanty letters as you do, Dean. They've updated their, er, facebook page-"

"Christ. Social networking can really make case investigation sound hella lame." He rolled his head in preparation for the news, reaching out to mute the radio.

"No kidding. Anyway, looks like during services today the organ, uh, 'grew hot with God's passion and released the notes of the angel's themselves'. Which is a really fun way to say it became so hot that the organist's fingers literally melted onto the keys and the pipes began dripping molten steel onto some of the altar boys before it made some sort of... Really loud blast, leaving no less than five of the audience members in the hospital with ruptered ear drums."

A disgusted grimace spread across Dean's face as he squinted against the bright sun they drove into. "Holy crap. What about that is miraculous?"

"Ah, well once the pipes stopped spazing out and cooled off, they'd melted into a perfect replica of, any guesses?"

"Virgin Mary. Slutty Mary. The Sistine Chapel ceiling, no, Sistine Chapel floor. Mel Gibson-"

"Okay, stop guessing," Sam cut him off, berating himself for encouraging him. "The Madonna and Child, perfectly captured in melted metal."

Dean whisteled softly.

"Yeah, between this, Jesus burned into the carpet by the candles uprighting themselves, and the Last Supper shattered into that window, that podunk church is turning into Arkansas' own Louvre."

"Yeah, whatever that means."

With a long suffering sigh, Sam turned to him with pursed lips, clearly intending to drop a knowledge bomb. Before he got around to learning Dean up about art, his eyes flicked towards the backseat and his face went deathly white. In a flurry of papers and gangly limbs, Sam dislodged everything on his lap and brought a gun around in a shaking hand.

The sudden movement and animal like grunts of surprise caused Dean to swerve dangerously close to the edge of the road, which was nothing that a few swear words and careful handling couldn't correct. "What the fuck are you- Heya, Cas." His grin filled the rear view mirror.

Sam blinked in confusion at the stock still figure in the backseat; a hard plastic, cartoonishly depicted clown mask covering its face. It slowly reached up and removed the mask, the elastic band snapping across already tousled, brown hair. Castiel met his gaze with a steady, bored expression.

"What the hell, Cas?!"

Cas turned bright blue, apathetic eyes to the driver. "Is that what you had in mind, Dean?"

Dean was chuckling quietly, banging the steering wheel gleefully. "You were supposed to do it at night, Cas."

He frowned and squinted his eyes as if in deep thought before replying. "No, Dean. I just revisited that exchange and you never mentioned anything about doing it at night. You just said to wear the mask the next time I needed to talk to both of you while you were on the road, preferably after sunset."

"After sunset didn't clue you in?"

"What the hell, you guys?!" Sam angrily shoved the gun back into the duffel bag at his feet. "That was just stupidly reckless! What if I'd tried to shoot him?"

Cas held out a closed fist to Sam, who questioningly held his own giant hand out. Merry tinkling bounced around the car as six unspent bullets exchanged possession. "These are yours, I emptied your clip to minimize the danger. Dean, after sunset is very ambiguous and I assure you I had no knowledge of this particular connotation."

"It seems pretty explicit to me." Dean said, still smiling to himself.

"At this particular moment, the sun has set precisely sixteen hundred, forty two billion nine-"

"Okay, rain man, ease off."

"Do you have anything to tell us, Cas, or are you just flying around being Dean's little prank monkey?" Sam asked as he glared moodily out at the monotonous scenery flashing past.

"I don't know what that means. The church in Arkansas is a problem."

"No shit." Sam grumbled. "We were just gonna ignore the little old ladies and nuns being horribly injured."

"Well I don't think that's the correct course of action. You should turn as much attention as possible onto those events."

The seriousness of the angel's deep voice caused Dean to flash another crooked grin at the mirror. He couldn't help it, every time Castiel took something predictably literally, he found himself smiling warmly. He'd taken to setting him up for it just for his own amusement. "Cas, your tie is on backwards again."

He looked away from the front seat, staring into the distance as if Dean had hit on a sensitive subject. "I am an angel of the lord, Dean. I do not have time to be concerned with my attire."

"Well then I guess we're lucky you pull off scruffy and disheveled so well."

"I'm here to assure you that nothing happening in Arkansas is in any way miraculous. You should do everything within your power to put a stop to it."

"That's great, Lassie. You got any other information for us? Maybe a hint as to what this thing is?" Dean reached over with his right hand, shuffling papers around on the bench until he uncovered the plastic gas station bag he was searching for. His question hung unanswered in the air. "Cas?"

"I don't think he knows." Sam said helpfully, earning a frown from the backseat.

"The things you know that I do not are imperceptible when viewed in comparison to the worlds upon worlds of knowledge that I hold."

"Yeah, he doesn't know. It's okay, Cas, even the best of us can struggle getting it up." Dean smiled at him in the mirror. "Well, I never have. But Sam here has got some stories."

"Shut up, Dean."

"Here, you want one of these, Cas?"

Cas' attention quickly shifted to the proffered item; a yellow pastry inside of a cellophane wrapper sat on Dean's outstretched hand. "I don't know what that is."

"What? It's a Twinkie, man."

"… Well I'm not going to say that word."

"You don't have to say it, just eat it."

He picked up the pastry, holding it awkwardly in one hand. "I can't enter the church with you unless it's absolutely necessary, so I'm depending on you two for this investigation."

Sam looked over his shoulder, wrinkles of confusion criss crossing his forehead. "What'd'ya mean you can't enter the church? Shouldn't you be all over houses of the holy?"

"Yes, usually I am quite at home in the house of the lord. That church, however, is special. It's foundation was laid by true believers who could, at times, see through the veil. It's location geographically increases the effect, the way a certain spot in a canyon receives all of the echoes around it. That building has been crafted over time into a perfect, psychic focal point. Right now, that church is full beyond capacity with near zealots praying day in and day out, the power that amalgamation of psychic energy and prayer creates is incredibly overwhelming."

"You're saying they're praying too much for you to be around?" Dean asked, laughing slightly in disbelief.

"Yes."

"And you don't think that's a little bit funny?"

"I don't see any humor in the situation, no."

"Said Castiel always. Are you gonna eat that or just hold it?"

The angel was sitting rigidly in the dead center of the bench, incomprehension covering his face as he studied the Twinkie in his hand. He looked up at his name, blinking at Dean. "I'll eat it later."

In a fluttering blink, he was gone.

"Damn it." Dean muttered, disappointed.

"What's wrong? Did you need to ask him something else?"

"What? No, I just… Never mind." He shook his head like someone dismissing something. "Will you hand me that Bad Company tape? We've gotta put a couple hundred miles behind us, you ready to round up some nuns?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, I guess."


	2. Chapter 2

"I think I need a new suit." Dean said as he closed the driver's door behind him and looked either way for possible witnesses before delicately readjusting his junk in the form fitting slacks. "Or just have 'em let it out in the crotch area. Again." He smirked at Sam across the top of the Impala, who turned and walked towards the steepled building, refusing to react to the poorly constructed joke.

"Wait up, Sammy!" He jogged to catch up, straightening his suit jacket and tightening the knot in his tie. "Can we even go in there right now, or are we gonna walk in on some group hymn sing along…. Thing?"

Sam laughed quietly, glancing sideways at him as they crossed the spongy, healthy green lawn. "You don't know a lot about catholic churches, do you?"

"I know that the things nuns wear on their heads are called cowls." He said impressively.

"…No. They're called 'habits'.

"Well excuse me for not having been born of the cloth."

"That's not what that means. Or how you use it."

"Thanks, Professor." Dean slowed just enough to let Sam's long legs out pace him, stepping down on the heel of one of his dress shoes as he proceeded forward.

"Jerk!" Sam hissed, hopping a step while he worked his foot back inside his shoe. "You're so immature." He chastised as Dean passed him and he threw a hand out, hitting him lightly on the gut. He smiled at the surprised grunt the soft backhand elicited from Dean.

"Yeah, I'm the immature one. Oh holy shit." They both came to a stop before they reached the entrance; staring in surprise at the huge window in front of them.

The glass was covered in tiny, hairline cracks all spiraling outward from a central break. The lines intertwined with each other, dancing smoothly around the window. It didn't resemble Leonardo da Vinci's last supper. It was Leonardo da Vinci's last supper; or a near perfect replica. Once inside, it was clear where the original impact had been; the indented scraps of glass held together only by what must be really good weather proofing now formed Jesus' face.

A few minutes later, they found themselves admitted into a spartan office by an excited nun. The door clicked behind them, and the man on the other side of the desk smiled warmly. "Good afternoon, gentlemen! I understand you wish to speak to me about our recent run of… Extraordinary events. Please sit down, Agents…?"

"Murphy. Mike Murphy." Dean said, clearing his throat and flipping open a masterfully counterfeited FBI badge with the matching name. "This is my partner, Marion Morrison."

Sam, who hadn't even looked at the badge Dean had handed him, coughed delicately as he sat down, caught momentarily off guard by the effeminate alias.

"Well it's a pleasure to meet you, Agents Murphy and Morrison, I'm Father Mckenzie." He was tall and stately, his dark hair speckled with salt and pepper bits of gray. He was the picture of a diplomatic priest; if they ever did reprints of the bible with full color covers, this guy belonged right on the front. "What can I do for you, gentlemen?"

"We just wanted to ask you some routine questions; I know these all seem like blessings to you, but when people get injured we have to poke around. I hope you understand." Sam turned on his nice guy voice, leaning forward in his seat and looking concerned.

"Oh of course, my son. You won't offend me, I assure you I am quite as concerned by the rising number of physical injuries as you are."

"What was the first… Extraordinary event, as you put it?"

His chair creaked somberly as he leaned back. "Tuesday last week. Sister Christian was-"

"I'm sorry," Dean interrupted. "Sister who?"

"Sister Christian."

With a serious amount of self control, Dean kept an earnest face, one single dimple the only display of amusement. "Just making sure, please continue."

"Sister Christian was locking up late last Friday, she said she heard noises inside the confessional that sounded like someone speaking to her when the entire building was empty. She ran down the hall and got… Pushed into that window, I'm sure you saw the results on your way in."

"Yes we did, it's… It's amazing." Sam said, nodding. "How badly was she injured?"

The priest shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Her nose and her jaw were both severely shattered. She was released from the hospital the day before yesterday, but I'm afraid her jaw is still wired shut."  
Sam nodded thoughtfully. "I see. And the thing with the candles?"

"During mass on Sunday, the candles just… Floated up, clear as day, in front of over three hundred people attending the service. They started spinning, almost everyone got hit with hot wax, and then they dropped to the ground. The carpet lit up like it was soaked in kerosene. After we evacuated everyone, the fire just… Went out, simple as that. The burn marks left behind form what is unarguably our lord and savior's depiction."

The office grew silent as the Winchesters digested this information.

"Shit."

Sam turned to Dean incredulously at the blatant swearing. He shrugged his shoulders at the glare. "Father, do you have any idea what's causing this run of… Miracles?" The word seemed so inappropriate when referring to the violent incidents that Sam actually cringed as he said it.

"Oh, yes. I know exactly what's causing them."

His answer was so openly positive that both of them simply stared in surprise before Dean finally spoke up. "Oh. Well, uh, what is it?"

"Well I brought it about, you understand."

They did not understand.

He leaned across the desk, speaking quietly as if he were revealing a great secret. "You see, agents, I prayed for this and the lord delivered it." A frown shadowed his previous enthusiasm. "Now that I have it, I can assure you I don't want it."

"Uh. Oh." Dean said, taken aback by the candid answer. "What exactly did you pray for?" 'And how?' He mouthed at Sam when the priest turned his head to the ceiling and rubbed his eyes.

"I asked for His assistance in bringing back my flock. Life is difficult for many of our members right now, with the economy the way it is and the like, our numbers were dwindling drastically. I believe these miracles were an answer to my prayers, something awe inspiring enough to draw his children back."

Dean's eyebrows were sitting a bit higher than normal, his lips pressed together a little bit too tight as he tried to keep himself from informing the man in front of him that his story was complete bullshit and that his God wasn't concerned with any of them in the least. And that everyone could tell his hair was dyed. "That's really… Something. I think that's all the questions we have for you, we'll keep in touch-"

"Actually, I have a few more questions for you, father." Sam interrupted, frowning at him questioningly.

"Okay, I'll just wait out in the car. Don't grill him too hard, Marion." The office felt like it was slowly closing in on him, and there was a painting behind Father Mckenzie of the Archangel Michael wielding his flaming sword that was making him more antsy than the threat of a committed relationship.

"Of course, Agent Murphy. Now if you'll just sign this waver before you leave..."

Halfway across the manicured grass, he caught sight of his beautiful car; there was someone sitting patiently in the passenger seat. The light tan of a rumpled trench coat was all the verification Dean needed. A faint smile readily replaced the concern on his face.

"How long have you been waiting?" He asked as he hauled the heavy door open and sat down, swinging the door closed behind him.

"Approximately one eighth of a second before you looked at your car and saw me."

"That's a neat party trick. I just finished talking to Father Mulcahy in there. Poor schmuck thinks he prayed this disaster into existence."

"He did pray it into existence."

Dean turned to him in disbelief. He'd expected him to scoff at the ridiculous suggestion and say something about foolish humans. "What."

"He did pray it into existence, Dean." The angel repeated.

"Cas, you told me less than a day ago that this was in no way miraculous-"

"It's not. It's a… Coincidence. He didn't pray for this, and god did not deliver this. His prayer in that building simply acted as a conduit of raw, Psychic energy and… Opened a hole in our existence wide enough for this being to slip through."

Dean realized his mouth was literally hanging open. He closed it and tilted his head, squinting his eyes in shock. "Nothing about that is simple! Ghosts, and demons and voodoo I can handle, I don't even know what you're talking about."

Castiel looked at him, straight faced as always. "It's not so abnormal. Well, to a life span as short as yours, I suppose it's quite extraordinary. But to someone who has lived as long as I have, it's hardly unusual."

"Is there anything that's unusual to someone who's lived that long?"

"Men like you are unusual."

Dean gaped at the unexpected compliment, but Cas kept talking as if this were completely normal.

"It might seem impossible to you, but our existence lives in between countless others, stretching on far beyond any number system can possibly record. The entity within that church is from one of these parallel dimensions, as that scientist that you're so familiar with, Doctor Spock would say."

Dean was so blindsided by this final comment that he couldn't help the explosion of laughter that it caused. "That's Mister Spock, Cas. But you're right, he would call them parallel dimensions, and we'd all be wearing beards."

"Dean, I don't understand-"

"What that means, I know. It's okay, it wasn't that funny." Dean glanced at the other man, examining his furrowed brow. His eyes were so impossibly blue sometimes, Dean frequently felt like he was staring at a Kodak ad. His mussed up hair lay all about his head, on any other man it would look like bed head, but on Cas it was just him. Scruff shaded his jaw and his chin, and any unbiased observer would have to admit it was damn manly. Dean's eyes fell on the blue tie around his neck, it was still backwards. His hand actually twitched at the sudden, nearly irresistible urge he had to reach out and fix that tie. He fixed his eyes forward, instead. "So how do we get rid of it?"

"You have to find a way of opening another tear in our existence and force it back through. It's been done before, you should be able to find a ritual for it."

"So it's back to internet forums and begging Bobby for help? You wanna come back to the hotel with us? You obviously don't have to actually help with research, but you could just hang out. Have a brewski." Dean was definitely disturbed by the hopeful tone he heard in his own voice, but it didn't matter. With a sound in the back of his mind that was reminiscent of bird wings, the man in the passenger seat was gone.

 

***

 

"Well we're absolutely not doing that one, so keep 'em comin', Sammy." Dean sat at the desk against the far side of the dingy motel room; legs extended in front of him as he leaned over the low back of the chair. He stretched his arms out behind him, interlacing his fingers together and supporting his head with his hands. Dean waited while the lack of a reply stretched into indignant, annoyed silence that spelled out precisely what face his younger brother was directing at him.

He eased open one eye, peering across the seemingly upside down room and smirking faintly when Sam's expression matched the one he'd imagined perfectly. Right down to the deep, winding trenches etched across his furrowed brow. "What?"

Sammy scoffed, shaking his head. "Well, Dean, I'll tell you what. We've been searching the web for hours, digging through every tiny, vaguely related forum post-"

"You're saying this like I haven't spent the last three hours of my life staring at that screen and reading almost indecipherable comments from every whack job with a wi-fi connection." Dean interrupted, grumbling with malcontent. "I feel like I'm literally dumber after wading through that crap."

"Right, Dean, it's been about as much fun for me, too. Which is exactly my point-"

"Don't talk to me in that prissy tone." Dean interrupted again, sitting up and turning in his seat to give his little brother a pained grimace. "I hate that tone."

"We've been at this for hours, and this is the only text we've found that has any promise at all! You can't just dismiss it like that. We have to call Bobby and see what of it he can verify-"

"And why would we bother verifying hoodoo bullshit we can't perform, even if it does prove to be more than retarded internet babble or more god damn Buffy fanfiction?" He emphasized the last few words by slamming a fist down on the table and snapping the not exactly legally purchased laptop shut with a bang, making Sam roll his eyes.

Another man might jump at the noise, but Sam was more than used to his brother's propensity for loud, and sometimes violent, contributions to their arguments. He wasn't sure how the back and forth conversation had slipped into argument territory, but it had, and he could sense Dean's proverbial hackles raising ever higher. Standing up, Sam carried his own little notebook computer across the room, staring studiously at the screen as he sat down on the bed next to Dean's chair. "Dean, what are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on! You had to of come across as much of it as I did!" Leaning forward, Dean rested his elbows on his knees and put his face in his hands. "If I have to skim over anymore Spike/Angel slash with the word 'clavicle' thrown in every few paragraphs, I'll-"

"That's not what I was talking about!" Sam hadn't intended to snap, but he could only suffer through Dean's dumb act for so long before it started to wear on him. "Dean, everything that this spell calls for is right within our reach, not even outside of our comfort zone. Are you wary about the blood shed?"

"Have I ever been wary of blood shed?" His deep voice sounded hallow, reverberating out from behind his hands.

"Then I don't know what your problem is!" Sam's voice cracked ever so slightly in his frustration. He started reading from the computer screen in front of him. "'The blood of one who has freely spilled the blood of others.' Either of us qualify for that. 'The tears of a first born son,' Easy, we'll give you a few beers and turn on Star Trek II-"

"Hey! I can't help that your heart has shriveled into organ shaped turds and is untouched by one of the most emotional scenes in cinematic history."

Sam continued, unperturbed. "The front hooves of a kid goat' that's no stress at all, there's more farms in this town than there are McDonalds in real civilization. 'Graveyard dirt from above the heart of one who died protecting others,' we don't even have to pull military records for that, just troll the cemetery and check epitaphs. We can get all of this together in a day, tops. It needs to be performed 'atop water during the sunset proceeding a full moon', which just happens to be two days from now. This all lines up perfectly! You just have to get a feather from Castiel, and-"

"Exactly. I'm glad you understand, Sammy." Dean gave him a small half smile and nod, standing up and walking to the mini fridge he'd crammed full of Guinness.

Sam hesitated, frowning in confusion. "The angel feather? That's what you're worried about?"

The tell tale crack and fizzing hiss of carbonation proceeded Dean's response; he tossed the bottle cap at the nearest trash can. "Not worried, little bro. I know we're not gonna do that, so we'll find another solution. We always do, it'll be fiiiiine." He gave a careless wave of his hand as an example of how fine they'd be.

That stupid scoff of Sam's again. "All you have to do is pray for him and ask. He'll do anything you ask, within reason. You know that as well as I-"

"I'm not gonna do that, Sam."

"Why not?"

Dean sat on the opposite bed, laying his forearms across his thighs and wrapping both hands loosely around the brown bottle he carried. "Listen, I've looked up a little bit of angel mythos recently," He picked thoughtlessly at the Guinness label as he spoke, avoiding eye contact lest Sam ask him the dreaded question of 'why?'

Why are you looking into angels, Dean? Why are you so consumed by the subject and the need to learn as much as you possibly can about the omnipotent soldiers when a year ago you would've gotten in a fist fight with anyone who said they existed? Why are you losing sleep, balls deep in wikipedia articles about the Angel of Thursday that you've read so many times you have them memorized? They were all questions he had no answer to, and would prefer they went unasked by his sometimes nosy brother. "For starters, they aren't just heavenly pigeons, alright? They don't leave a trail of cute white feathers everywhere they go. It has to be forcibly removed and everything I could find implies that it hurts like a bitch. I'm not gonna rip an extremity off of a friend for shady, black magic stationary."

Sam closed his laptop and stared at Dean; one of his patented 'how are you possibly being so stupid right now' looks. "You don't hesitate over me or you spilling blood."

"Yeah," Dean conceded, pursing his lips and tilting his head, elusive dimples appearing above his mouth. "But I wouldn't even ask you to cut off a finger."

"You can't possibly know that it's akin to cutting off a finger!" Sam rolled his eyes, giving a visual to match the tone of condescension now abundant in his voice.

"I'm not willing to risk that it is!" Dean slammed his bottle on the night stand and stood back up, heedless of the beer foaming out of the bottle mouth and spilling to the table top to pool dejectedly around the base of the drink.

"Cool your jets, Dean!" Sam matched the raised volume of Dean's voice, suddenly happy to give him the fight he seemed to want so bad before gritting his teeth and willfully calming himself down. "I don't know what you're so worked up about. You know he'll love to help out. If you asked him-"

"So, so what, Sam? Just because someone will do something if I ask means I should just go right ahead and abuse that... That trust? Not trust, that's not what I mean. I just mean I don't want to take advantage of his… Friendship." For some reason, the whole conversation was strangely upsetting for Dean. He felt angry and anxious and he wasn't entirely sure why. He paced around the room, fiddling with the switchblade he'd snagged off the desk as he talked.

"What are you talking about?" Sam's face was twisted in a mix of serious confusion and growing annoyance. "You're blowing this way out of proportion. I think you're also forgetting that we're nothing but expendable to him."

Dean stopped pacing, turning to the younger man with a stormy glare. "He's saved our lives almost more times than you've endangered them by farting around at the time of truth."

The insult closed the conversation with the abruptness of a sucker punch.

"You can be a real dick when you're mad."

"Yeah? Well you can be a real dick. Period." Dean snatched his coat off the hook on the wall and opened the door. "I need some air."

Sam had returned to his computer; pointedly not reacting to Dean's antagonizing behavior. "Don't choke on it. That'd be a real shame."

Dean had already stepped outside, but Winchesters don't just give away the last word. Leaning casually against wooden door frame, he stuck an arm inside, flipping Sam the bird before extracting his hand and slamming the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy, fluff, fluff. Cas, your kawaii is showing

He wasn't really mad at Sam. He wasn't really mad at anyone, he was just mad and he didn't know why. Which made him even more mad. He stalked across the the empty parking lot, ignoring the hopeful, forward glances directed his way from the barely legal blonde girl sitting behind the desk in the brightly lit front office. ' _Maybe on the way back, honey_ ' he mused thoughtfully.

He trailed a hand along the gleaming, smooth lines of the Impala as he passed it; savoring the cool steel and beauty of his baby. The Impala was so straightforward, so cut and dry. It was a relationship he didn't have to analyze or question, she was always there for him, and he was always there for her. There were no complicated emotions or social niceties that he had to muddle his way through; if something was wrong with his baby, he popped the hood and fixed it, simple as that.

Dean didn't pick a direction or a destination, he just let his feet go while he revisited the fight he'd had with his brother. He knew Sam hadn't been trying to provoke him, but something about the way he talked about Cas.

There it was. Again. Just casually conversing about the angel with his own blood had been enough to set a flickering fire underneath his loyal, defensive nature. It wasn't that out of the ordinary for him, in the rare case that someone outside of his tiny circle of family was able to endear themselves to the ascetic hunter, he wasn't likely to allow a single word of negativity about them to be uttered without repercussion. Usually violent repercussion, at that.

Throughout his patchy and short lived high school career, there was only one single teacher that he could recall with any clarity. A fresh out of college English teacher who was new enough to be unaffected by the bitterness and apathy that the public school system seemed to eventually instill in all of them. Where the rest of Dean's teachers regarded him with pity before turning a blind eye to the angsty delinquent with his aloof attitude, bad boy dress and frequently visible bruises and injuries, she went out of her way to treat him like a regular student. She assigned projects aimed specifically at his interests; _'this weekend, I want you all to write about a band or musician that has influenced your life.' 'This report is about family, and what family means to you.'_ One time she'd found him smoking outside the gym on his way off campus for the rest of the day and instead of detention or calling the police, she's talked him into coming back inside, bought him lunch and talked to him about Clint Eastwood movies for half an hour. Never once did she question him about his home life or pityingly ask him if his father had a short temper or a drinking problem.

Ditching his math class one day, Dean had come across two of the football players spray painting 'cunt' and 'bitch' across her car, talking loudly about how unfairly she'd failed them. A few hours later, the principle found both of the seniors hog tied on the asphalt next to the graffitied car, their own dirty socks shoved in their mouths as gags, bright red Fs spray painted across either of their chests. John Winchester went from rage at the expulsion letter to calm acceptance after Dean's explanation. "It's alright," He'd told his oldest son as they sat in the Impala outside of the motel they'd been 'living' in. "I was planning on relocating soon, anyway."

Finding himself in a poorly lit alley behind the all night diner on the corner, Dean had just about rationalized his behavior as nothing more than his usual overly defensive attitude when the back of his neck started prickling and he became aware of someone following him. Whistling Metallica's _Sad But True_ in an unconcerned manner, he stuck his hands into his jacket pocket and proceeded forward calmly, fingering the familiar metal of the switch blade in his pocket. He could hear the whisper of footsteps every couple of feet and even caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning a corner, he flipped around and whipped the knife at the wall, aiming high and intending only to scare off what was probably an aspiring pick pocket tailing him.

As the knife left his hand, his eyes grew wide in shock when Castiel appeared directly in the path of the thrown weapon. "Cas!" He felt immediately sick as he watched his best friend helplessly.

Cas had one hand extended in a 'stop' gesture, and Dean cringed visibly as the knife seemingly impaled the angel's hand. Cas frowned at the switchblade, closing it and holding it out to Dean. He'd caught it in between his fingers. "I apologize, I should have announced myself sooner."

"Yeah, I thought I was going to have to put the fear of god into a petty criminal." Dean approached him, only slightly in awe of the amazing catch, and accepted the knife.

"The fear of god isn't-"

"Phrase of speech, Cas. I mean I'd kick the shit out of them."

He considered this. "That hardly calls for a religious euphemism."

"I can't argue with you there. What brings you out on this depressingly beautiful night?"

Cas let his arms drop stiffly to his sides, tilting his head as he looked at Dean. "I looked in on you and you seemed… lonely."

"Oh." It was not the reason he was expecting. "How frequently do you… look in on me?"

"As frequently as is necessary." Cas replied cryptically.

"You ever heard of privacy?"

"I assure you I try to avoid eavesdropping. The two of you have this tendency of putting yourselves in highly dangerous situations and as emotionless as you may think I am, I am capable of feeling concern. Very capable, actually."

Dean pursed his lips, trying to look annoyed. "We're hunters, putting ourselves in danger is basically in the job title." He turned around, gesturing for Cas to walk with him. "But, thanks, I guess… I don't think you're emotionless. Sometimes you seem like an icy snow angel, but I figure it's like a Vulcan thing."

"I don't know what either of those things are."

The smile was impossible to fend off. "Vulcan's are a noble and most ancient race. They put up the appearances of lacking any emotions, but feel just as much as the rest of us on the inside." He couldn't ever see himself getting tired of convincing Castiel that bits and pieces of the Star Trek universe were factual.

"I understand. And what's a snow angel?"

Dean stopped walking, regarding him with disbelief. "Oh, come on! You've monitored this planet for how many thousands of years?"

"I can't be expected to know every trite, mortal tradition."

He laughed at the indignant frown on Cas' face. "Sometime when we're somewhere snowy, I'll show you, okay?"

"You could show me now." Cas said, reaching out. His finger tips felt warm were they settled gently on Dean's forehead.

With a lurching pull in his gut, Dean gasped and stepped forward into more than a foot of snow. He'd gone from a dark, gloomy alley to a valley full of snow, mountain peaks surrounding him. The silverly light of a full moon refracted brilliantly off the untouched powder, it was a scene that belonged on an old woman's puzzle. "Son of a bitch, Cas. A heads up before we disapparate thousands of miles away would be nice." He swallowed down a wave of nausea.

Cas lowered his hand, surveying the area with some pride. "Is this enough snow for you to demonstrate a 'snow angel'?"

Dean blinked, surprised at Cas' motivations for the sudden jump. "What, are you serious?"

"You said we had to be somewhere snowy…" He turned to him with worry in his eyes, a puppy fearing it was in trouble.

"… Okay. I'll show you." Dean wore a huge grin now as he stepped closer to the angel. Before Cas could protest, he stuck a foot behind the other man's legs and pushed his chest.

Expecting to see him sprawl backwards in the snow, Dean folded his arms in annoyance as Cas barely tripped and disappeared, reappearing at his side. "Why did you push me?"

"Because you have to be laying down to make a snow angel! I'm not gonna show you how to do this unless you lay off the mojo."

"That's ridiculous. Why would I want to lay in frozen precipitation?"

Dean kicked up some snow impatiently. "You're the one that wanted to learn this."

Furrowed brow and usual expression of distant confusion, Cas study his face. With a poof of white powder, he dropped back right on his ass, face completely serious as he lay down. "Now what?"

Dean was fighting with all his strength to keep the hysterical laughter that was clawing its way up his throat from escaping, taking on an earnest tone of instruction. "Now you stretch your arms and legs out and… Just wave 'em. No, not up, Cas. Out in the snow. Yeah, like that." As he spoke, he bent and retrieved a handful of the soft snow, packing it lightly with both hands. "Just keep doing that for a bit, that's the important part." He leaned back, tossing the snowball into the air with perfect precision, knowing it would fly up and come down directly on his friend's face. He smirked, awaiting the wet thunk of snow.

Dean let out a surprised yell, suddenly finding himself flat on the ground with Castiel kneeling above him, straddling his stomach, a misshaped snowball in his hand. Dean stared up at him in shock.

"Is this part of making a snow angel?" Cas asked, dropping the snowball onto Dean's face and cocking his head to the side questioningly. His messy hair stuck out in wet spikes, snow crystals clinging to it here and there for a rather aesthetically pleasing effect.

Aesthetically pleasing? Dean shook his head, reaching up to wipe the snow off his face. Surely that thought hadn't crossed his mind. "No, but this is." Wrapping an arm around Cas' waist, he turned to the side and pushed him into the snow, reversing their positions. He quickly used both arms to scoop up an armload of snow, unloading it on the man beneath him.

A visible wave of heat came off of Castiel, all of the snow descending on him melting and falling harmless to the side. Laying in a steaming, person shaped hole, he actually smiled up at Dean. A tiny, barely noticeable smile that stood out on his face like a goofy grin. Vulcan indeed.

Peals of deep, hearty laughter echoed off the mountain tops, surrounding the pair as Dean laughed harder than he had in months.

"Dean, you're shivering." Cas interrupted his glee, piercing blue eyes staring at him in concern.

"Yeah, snow's a little cold and I'm a little under dressed for the rockies." He laughed again, sweeping a hand along the snow next to them, successfully landing some on the angel's shocked face. He threw a fist up in the air in celebration and then gasped, falling backwards onto a carpeted floor. He coughed, what he'd come to think of as transporter sickness overcoming him and disappearing just as quickly. Cas stood above him, offering him a hand up that he gratefully took.

"I apologize, I'd forgotten how uncomfortable that low of a temperature is for humans."

Dean surveyed his clothes, surprised to find himself completely dry and warm. "It's okay, it was fun. I can't think of the last time I got to play in snow like that." Probably never, actually. He looked around the room, mistaking it for a moment as the same room he and Sam were currently staying in before realizing the subtle differences that told him it was an empty room in the same hotel. Turning back to Cas, he was again unable to ignore the loose, backwards tie around his neck. "Come here, I have to fix your tie."

Obediently stepping closer, Cas turned his head towards the ceiling without question. Dean set to work undoing the rumpled neck tie.

"I had hoped it would be an entertaining distraction for you. I was worried the real reason I have to speak to you might upset you."

Dean's hands hesitated at his neck before continuing the double Windsor knot. "Sock it to me."

"Wh-"

"I mean tell me what you need to tell me." He flattened the tie against his chest, turning his collar down neatly and stepping back.

"Dean, you need to perform that ritual with Sam. I need you to remove one of my feathers."


	4. Chapter 4

Dean's mouth felt uncomfortably dry and he longed for one of the beers he knew resided near by. He leaned against the entertainment center behind him. "I thought you said you didn't eavesdrop."

He actually cringed at the slight tone of accusation. "I said I try to avoid eavesdropping, and I do. But there is powerful magick behind true names, it's all but impossible for me to ignore words spoken around my own."

"That's gotta be loads of chuckles. I'm sorry if you ever heard me say anything offensive about you." Dean said, grimacing at the thought of being able to hear every word spoken about him behind his back.

"I do not socialize with enough humans for it to cause too many problems and my kind does not take offense easily…" He tilted his head and the light from one of the bedside lamps glinted off of his impossibly blue eyes; sparkling like a multifaceted sapphire. Or tropical ocean. Or something else blue. There's a reason Dean doesn't write poetry. "You have no reason to apologize, you have never once said anything in my absence that you would not repeat in my presence."

Dean coughed, glancing at the far wall as he felt his cheeks warm up with a… flush of color. Not a blush, mind you. "If you can't say it to their face, you shouldn't be saying it at all. Listen, Cas, I don't… Do I _have to_ … I mean, can't you just give one to me?" He was floundering desperately for counter-arguments, knowing inside that this was a bad idea but unable to directly turn down the angel's own request.

"No, Dean. You have to remove it for me. I think it will be less painful than you're assuming-"

He honed in on a single word in the deep, reassuring statement. " _Think_? You _think?_ "

"…Well. Dean, I have never actually lost a feather before," His hand wandered up to his neatly situated tie, fiddling with the collar as he spoke. "It is not a common occurrence for our feathers to… be removed."

Dean let out a short, bitter laugh. "Cas-"

" _However_ ," He interrupted what was sure to be yet another protest with a stern voice. "I know it won't cause any permanent damage, thus the necessity easily outweighs the cons. Your options are limited, to say the least."

Dean had started pacing. He grabbed a chair from the corner, sliding it in front of him and straddling the seat, resting his arms on the back. "What if I refuse?"

The puppy dog eyes were back. Dean idly wondered how one could look so pathetic and so attractively masculine in the same instance. He filed a mental snapshot of the expression away for later evaluation, mastering such a look could really benefit his lady charming. "Then I'll have to ask Sam to do it, and we both know he won't hesitate. Dean, I would… I would much prefer you to do it."

"Why?" Oops. Dean winced, he hadn't intended to actually ask him that, it had simply crossed his mind so suddenly that he didn't have time to stop it before it escaped out of his mouth.

Cas frowned down at him, glancing around the room as if for inspiration. "Imagine Balthazar has proven beyond the shadow of a doubt to be as loyal to your cause as I have. Now imagine there's something you require an angel's assistance for, something incredibly personal and… intimate that may leave you vulnerable. Who's assistance do you request first?"

"Yours." There was not a single moment of consideration prior to his answer.

The hint of a smile played across Cas' face. Assuming a probable answer and actually hearing it are two different things. "For whatever reason, sentient beings have their preferences and their favorites."

"You're easily my favorite angel, but your competition's not falling all over themselves for the honor. Who's your favorite human?" He clicked his tongue as he gave an expectant grin. Bros do not ask other bros who their favorite is. Good thing this was a bro on angel conversation.

"Dean, I have lived much longer and met many more individuals than you have. I was quite fond of Joan of Arc-"

He had not prepared himself for a negative response, and it hit him like the anticipation of a nonexistent step at the top of a flight of stairs. Uncomfortable lurching and then awkward embarrassment. "Ouch, outclassed by an extra crispy saint."

"…However, recently I've come to prefer independent thinking to blind servitude." The corners of his mouth pulled up in one of his step-above-apathy smiles. "In all honesty, you're the only human I've ever considered a friend."

"Alright, alright," Dean stood up, waving away his sudden grin. "Stop while you're ahead. That's enough friendship is magic, Twilight Sparkle."

"I don't know what that means."

"It means I've been watching too much cable. Are we gonna do this or what?"

The two stood a foot away from each other, wearing similar expressions of unhappy determination. Quiet twanging of a dramatic Muse song that Dean immediately recognized as one of Sam's favorites leaked through the adjoining wall, telling him they were right next door to the room he shared with his brother. Tiny, soft ringing against the window accompanied the light downpour that had started outside.

"Give me your hand."

Dean shifted his weight, folding his arms and pursing his lips. "What?"

"You have to give me your hand and close your eyes. My wings are only corporeal when I'm in my angelic form, the sight of which can be harmful, even lethal, to mortals."

"Ah, not much of a beach body?" He smirked.

Castiel stared plainly at him.

"Tough crowd." Dean grumbled. He closed his eyes and held his right hand out in front of him, feeling extremely silly and wishing he was at least a little drunk for this particular event. He was still a bit chilled from the snow and when Cas' hand gently covered his own, he felt warmth spread happily from his fingers.

Cas slid his other hand up Dean's forearm, disrupting the black paracord bracelet and pushing the sleeve of his coat out of the way so he could wrap his hand around the human's wrist. He took a deep, steadying breath. "I understand that curiosity is human nature, but you must not attempt to glimpse my true visage. Do you understand?"

"Yeah, yeah, no peeking. I get it. You're shy." He opened one eye enough to wink, earning a stormy look of disapproval from Cas. "Okay, sorry. I'm good, I swear." He thought of another joke about the littlest angel and opened his mouth to deliver it when the transformation began.

The atmosphere in the room crackled with static electricity, the few precious moments before lightening strikes, and Dean flinched forward as the light fixture above them exploded in a shower of thin glass. The hand around his arm grew uncomfortably hot and strangely pliable as if tendrils of boiling water were tightly gripping his wrist. Every inch of him was itching for escape from the unfamiliar situation and slight burn traversing up his arm, but Dean held fast.

He allowed his arm to be guided forward despite the fact that it felt like willingly shoving his fist in a blazing bonfire. Downy, gossamer feathers tickled the back of his hand and all of Dean's fears were banished. The concern was replaced with awe and humbling admiration, surely he was not fit to be in the same room as the magnificent being in front of him.

It was so overwhelming that he almost forgot his goal. The ethereal hand dropped away and Dean shook his head, clearing the confusing emotions he was experiencing. He squared his shoulders and forced himself to ignore every thought involving Castiel. "Just like plucking a pigeon." He muttered under his breath. He wrapped his fingers around one of the long feathers, expecting it to come off easily but finding it wasn't nearly as delicate as he had originally thought. Clenching his eyes tighter and holding his breath, he yanked.

A high pitched ringing filled the room, the two windows exploding outward. The TV blared to life, white noise buzzing at top volume in a terrible duet with the bedside radio that switched stations too fast for anything to register. A hand clapped against Dean's right shoulder, heat surging through his coat before fading; the hand solidifying into a regular human appendage as the noise in the room quieted and then stopped completely.

Dean's eyes flew open and he grabbed at Castiel, who was gripping his shoulder and keeling forward. Together, they fell to their knees like a drunkenly orchestrated dance. "Cas. Cas!" He shook the other man, pin pricks of panic surfacing as his head rolled back; vacant, unseeing eyes fluttering shut. "Shit." Anxiously surveying the destroyed room, Dean made a snap decision. They had to get out of here.

Getting up on the balls of his feet, he carefully leaned Cas back, sliding an arm behind his back and another behind his knees. Gritting his teeth, he took a deep breath and heaved. And tumbled backwards against the wall. "Whoa." Eyebrows pulled down in sever confusion, Dean straightened, feeling plaster from the damaged wall rain down on his legs. Carrying nearly two hundred extra pounds and his arms felt lighter than air and his legs seemed to be spring loaded. He went so far as to check the body hanging limply in his arms, just to make sure it hadn't vanished to be replaced with a straw filled trench coat. Castiel's blank face stared back at him. "Like my night needed to get weirder."

He took a step towards the door, frowning as it turned into a disconcertingly far hop. It took every ounce of his concentration to make it across the room incident free, forcing his feet to take regular sized steps. Fumbling with the knob, he managed to turn it and push the door open, groaning in frustration when a loud crunching sound accompanied a mighty shudder from the door frame. He'd forced the door open with the deadbolt still locked, wood splintering around the dislodged strike plate. As he moved to exit, the tickling thought of something forgotten filled his mind. A glance over his shoulder revealed a white feather laying in the center of the floor. Nearly a foot long with an effervescent glow emanating from its sweeping form, it was hard to miss. "Son of a bitch!"

Retrieving it while still carrying Cas' prone form proved to be a simple task with his newfound super strength and he finally stepped onto the cement outside, cool rain pelting his face and bouncing off his clothing. His sigh of minor relief was interrupted by a painfully loud squeal. Dean jumped, bracing himself for paranormal repercussions.

"Oh my god you _are_ a LARPer!"

The blonde girl from the front office was standing in front of him, collar on her black leather jacket turned up against the weather and a large grin on her face.

"What."

"Ohmigod, I thought as much when you pulled up in that sexy as hell Impala and asked for a room for you and your brother, and the credit card was a dead give away, _Mr. Frampton_ ," She winked as she referenced his alias smoothly.

"Oh my god, this is not happening."

"And now you're princess carrying Castiel! Eeeeeeeeeeee!"

"I'm not _princess carrying_ anyone, I- Stop making that noise!" Dean snapped, putting all of his anger and annoyance into the command, fully expecting her to shrink away from his intimidating, yet powerfully attractive, demeanor.

The girl's eyes widened to comical size and she literally bounced up and down on the spot. " _Oh em gee_ , you're so in character! This is too much for me, I can't handle it."

"That makes two of us. Get out of my way."

His deep words fell on deaf ears. "God, you just look so perfect! Your brother could use some work, though. He's a bit too… lanky and Neanderthal-y." A hot pink digital camera appeared in her hands, coming from an inner pocket of her jacket. Before Dean got out a single protest, she'd already snapped several pictures of the ungainly pair. "Can you just lean down like you're about to kiss him?"

"Oh for fuck's sake." Dean had lost all patience. It was cold, Cas was still unconscious and he was starting to register the weight in his arms. "Ditch that camera and get out of my way right now. I'm not a fan of hitting women, but so help me, I will do it. You've got a real creepy _Misery_ feel about you, lady."

One of her finely plucked eyebrows raised and she cocked her head to the side. "Well, that's a shame. If you were just cosplayers willing to pose for a picture for me, I wouldn't dream of fining you for what looks to be a _considerable_ amount of damage done to that room, hooligans breaking in and trashing a room isn't unheard of. But since you're not that, and you're just two dudes in a very awkwardly compromising situation, I guess I'll have to charge you _and_ call the cops for breaking and entering. And vandalism. And I'm willing to bet on credit card fraud."

Dean's mouth hung wide open, his hazel eyes looking from the faintly smiling young woman in front of him to the ruined door and shattered glass behind him. "Oh, god damn it."


	5. Chapter 5

The quiet woosh of a key card slid through the reader proceeded the heavy motel door cracking open, a spray of rain entering the room in time with the lanky form of the youngest Winchester. The air pressure combined with the wind from outside pushed the door to with a loud snap.

Dean glanced up from where he half lay on the farthest bed, most of his weight supported by the elbow beneath him. A laptop sat open in front of him, clearly the source of his study. "Sammy!"

With a small smile of greeting, Sam shook the dripping water out of his hair, not unlike a dog after a bath, before proceeding into the room. Reaching into his coat, he dropped a tightly curled brown sack on the foot of Dean's bed as he passed. "Hey."

Squinting forward, Dean poked questioningly at the rumpled paper sack in front of him. It was speckled almost artistically with the rogue rain drops that had found their way through his brother's jacket. When he wasn't reprimanded, he quickly unrolled the top and peered inside. A plastic container sat in the bottom; a haggard, large cut of apple pie placed peacefully inside. 'Jerk' was scrawled sloppily across the top in black marker. "Oh my god, Saaaaammy, I love me some pie!" The sound of tearing paper accompanied his enthusiastic exclamation. "Almost as much as I love you, little bro!"

Sam's steps slowed at this statement. Pausing at the bathroom door, he looked at Dean in mild confusion. "Dean, are you drunk?"

"No, Samuel, I am not drunk." He spoke around a mouthful of pie, his eyes closed in contentment. "I am seven beers sober. Which is only one in doggy beers."

"… Oh, man. Drunk isn't a good enough excuse for that joke."

"I got you a little prezzie, too, little-but-not-so-small bro. It's in your laptop."

Sam folded his arms, turning to stare in distaste at the mentioned laptop. "Oh god, it's not a six gig, blu ray porno rip again, is it? The last time you downloaded _This Ain't Star Trek_ onto my computer, it came with that terrible virus that covered my screen in that obnoxious rainbow cat thing."

"Oh man, I love that guy!" Dean's hearty laughter was enough to make even Sam smile a bit in amusement. Suddenly the laughter disappeared and his eyes grew gravely serious. "Dude, do we have any poptarts?"

Blindingly white tips were protruding from either end of the closed computer and Sam curiously cracked it open. A paint program filled the screen, a shakily written and multicolored message prominently displayed: 'faether 4 u bitch'. "You got it." He said, eyebrows raised in surprise as he examined the feather laying across the keyboard.

"Do not touch that shit, unless you're fully prepared for Fear and Loathing in Gotham City. I broke two doors and dented the cement while tripping balls on that. Dunno if the rush is from yanking it or just touching it, but we should probably wear gloves just to be safe."

"Hmm. I wonder why there isn't more mythos about something with that much power attached to it." Sam grabbed the discarded sack off the bed, tearing it in half and carefully wrapping it around the feather.

"Classy. Now no one in the park will be able to tell if you're drinking a fifth of Jack or taking a hit off your angel feather."

After placing the bundle delicately inside his reinforced laptop bag, Sam retrieved a beer from the dwindling supply in the mini fridge, took a slightly dramatic pull from the green bottle and stepped into the bathroom, pushing the door closed behind him.

Dean jumped to his feet with a grimace, crossing the room in two long strides to stand in front of the bathroom with hands in his pockets and an expecting look on his face.

The door opened and Sam leaned out. "Yeah, Dean, why is there a half naked angel in the bathtub?"

"Because I didn't want to take his pants off, too."

"Alright." His beer bottle clanked against the granite counter top as he set it down, pushed the door all the way open and leaned against the sink. "What happened?" He folded his arms significantly.

Dean matched Sam's posture. "You were wrong and I was right. Stop the press, it must be Thursday." The half smirk was even more transparent than normal.

Sam raised an eyebrow at the dull silver flask that had appeared in his hands. "What happened? Did he just pass out?"

"He's an immortal super being, Sammy, he didn't just pass out." He responded sourly, taking a pull from his flask. "More like he exploded every electrical appliance in the immediate area and then dropped cold. But, hey, at least we got our feather. That's what angel bros are for, right? Hey, maybe we could hold him down and pluck enough to stuff a heavenly pillow. He'd let us if we asked, right?"

He looked properly rueful in response to Dean's thinly veiled accusation. "I had no idea this would happen-"

"I had an inkling."

"I know, I know," Sam sighed, staring mournfully across the bathroom at Cas' prone form. His thick, wet hair was plastered against his head, coupling with his default puppy dog expression to make him look like a sad lover denied and left out in the rain. He was too tall to fit in the small tub; one of his legs was pulled up, his knee leaning against the wall, while the other leg was extended out and hooked over the edge, his sopping wet black-business socks bunched at his ankles. The crumpled white button-up shirt he'd been wearing lay sloppily on the linoleum where Dean had tossed it, while his bright blue tie hung carefully from the shower rod, dripping out a mournfully slow rhythm against the plastic of the tub. "You told me so."

"You'd think that at some point you'd get sick of hearing that so much and learn to listen to me the first time."

Sam rolled his eyes, directing a mocking frown at his brother. "How long has he been out like this?"

"Dunno, uh, twenty minutes?"

Kneeling in front of the tub, Sam held his index and middle fingers against Cas' throat, feeling for a pulse. "His heart rate is fine-"

"Yeah, I never would've thought to check if he's alive." Dean said, washing back the sarcasm with a mouthful of the unknown liquor and leaning casually against the door frame.

"But that doesn't really tell us how Cas is doing- what if he wakes up and he's just Jimmy?"

Dean's eyes widened to comic proportions. "What if he what now?"

"Yeah, what if he comes to and we're stuck with a crying, wet Jimmy?"

"Oh god."

"Oh man, he'll file a date rape charge against you for sure."

"Stop."

"And since you're the one who stripped him, you're the one that has to hold him while he cries."

"Jesus." The last of his cursing was replaced with a desperate chug from the flask, causing Sam to grimace in response.

"Okay, Dean, I'm just joking. I think you need to ease up on the hooch for right now."

As sincere as the concern was, Dean could only react by rolling his eyes and tipping the flask all the way back, the last amber-brown drops drizzling on his tongue. "Fine, Mother Mary. That's the rest of the Jack, anyway."

"And yet another warrior makes a noble sacrifice."

He tossed the flask, grinning at Sam's sarcasm. "He'll live on in my heart until the buzz wears off." It clanked merrily from where it bounced on the bed, settling against the pillow.

"I don't think there's much we can do for Cas right now, but we can start gathering the other spell ingredients-"

"I'm not gonna go idly back to my business while Cas lays comatose in a cheap motel bathtub any more than I would if it were you or Bobby in there." Dean's face was adorned with a crooked smile and good natured Clint Eastwood crinkles, but there was an edge to his voice and a glint in his hazel eyes that plainly said he wasn't playing around. He was firmly putting his foot down on priorities.

Sam pursed his lips with a disdainful huff. "I understand your concern, Dean, but people are dying. We need to focus on that."

Dean's friendly mask froze and he tilted his head, leaning closer to Sam. "People die every day, Sammy, and I've saved more than my fair share of strangers. I'm not sure if you've noticed, but our social calenders aren't exactly over booked. I've got you and I've got Bobby for family, and I've got that man in there as a friend, human or not. You can go find some goats to de-foot or whatever, but I'm staying here until he walks out of that bathroom by himself."

Thick eyebrows pulled severely down; Sam prepared to launch right into a screaming match when a thud was heard from the open bathroom and he instead stumbled to the side as his older brother shoved him out of the way and sprinted past him.

"Casyouokay?" Dean barely managed to get the words out in the right order as he slid to a halt on the linoleum and saw the half-clothed figure crouching on the floor and attempting to extract the fallen shower curtain from around his head. Dean grabbed the tacky blue sheet of plastic and yanked it away to reveal Castiel blinking up at him with wide, confused eyes.

"Hello, Dean. I believe the removal of a feather may have had a temporary, negative effect on my equilibrium." He said, hands braced on the floor on either side of him as if in fear of tipping over even in a kneeling position.

Dean smiled in relief and extended a hand down to the fallen angel, who examined it questioningly before placing his own in it. "Don't worry about it, Cas. Bottom shelf tequila does the same thing to me." He clapped his other hand onto Cas' upper arm and hauled him to his feet.

For just a moment, the two stood mere inches away from each other, hand in hand. Blue stared into brown in such an intense, clear manner that Dean felt heat rising to his cheeks. He released the hold he had on the other man, stepping back to a safer distance. The fact that in one single glance at Cas, Dean had been able to count the exact number of water droplets winding their way down his bare torso was somewhat upsetting.

"I overheard your loud exchange and was coming to tell you that, although I appreciate the concern, Sam is right in prioritizing the case over my welfare."

Dean's open mouthed guffaw was interrupted when Sam stuck his head in the door, grinning hopefully. "Did I just hear someone say I was right?"

Cas turned to him with apathy, laying a hand softly against Dean's shoulder as he did. After staring at Sam for a few seconds, he retracted his hand and frowned at it in confusion. "It appears I am unable to transport either myself or Dean…" He looked back at Sam apologetically. "Perhaps you could just leave instead?"

Pressing his lips together and widening his eyes, Dean poker-faced and attempted to keep from laughing.

Sam shifted feet uncomfortably. "O-Oh. Uh, yeah, I mean, I guess I could go collect some spell stuff-"

"Yes, I think it would be for the better." Cas agreed in earnest.

Slowly walking from the bathroom to the door, Sam stared over his shoulder with wide eyes, expecting one of them to stop him before he actually left.

"Oh, and Sam-"

"Yeah, Dean?" He asked hopefully from where he lingered next to the coat hook.

"Can you stop by the laundromat and put Cas' coat in the dryer? It should be done washing now."

"…Okay. Bye, I guess."

"Thanks, Sam!"

 

***

 

"Dean, these pants won't stay up on me like they do on you."

"Quit whining so much, come out here, I've got a belt you can use and I'll show you how to cinch it up."

After a few seconds of silence, Cas walked out from the open bathroom, one hand on the worn bluejeans slipping haphazardly down his waist. The collar of the black AC/DC shirt he wore rode low on his neck, tour dates from the eighties plastered across his chest.

Dean grinned and Cas pouted.

"Cas, you have that shirt on backwards."

He looked sourly down at his clothes. "I've grown fond of humans over the years, but I hate clothing. It's restricting and nonsensical, if there's a front and a back they should just label it as such."

"That's what the tags are for, Cas." He stood up and walked over to him, still laughing quietly at the sight of his rumpled angel wearing his rumpled clothes. "Look," He grabbed the collar of the shirt, pulling it forward so Cas could see the little fabric tag in the middle. "They put tags in the back so you know which way they go."

"Humans always have to find the most difficult way to convey the most simple bits of information." Cas grumbled as he watched Dean dig around in his green sea bag.

"Here we go, a pre-pie fixation belt; should fit your skinny ass no problem." He announced, waving the strip of leather around successfully. Standing in front of Cas, he began feeding it through the loops around his waist.

Cas stared at a point just above Dean's ear in contemplative silence. "… Is having a skinny ass a negative attribute by human standards?"

Dean blinked at him as he reached around to grab the belt from behind. "Don't read too much into what I say; I just crack bad jokes, it's what I do."

"But is it considered unattractive?"

"Not necessarily. I mean, most of the ladies I end up with prefer a little more muscle on their men, as you can guess," His eyes sparkled and he winked, clicking his tongue. "But everyone has their preferences."

"And what do human men find attractive in each other?"

Dean coughed delicately, feeding the end of the belt through the buckle and pulling the jeans up a little higher; every time he looked down at his hands, he was uncomfortably aware of the bare patch of skin between shirt and too-loose-pants, and more than anything of the faint tracing of pubic bone it revealed. "Like I said, everyone has their preferences."

"Do you think my vessel is physically attractive?"

"Oh, come on, Cas!" Dean looked at him pleadingly, but Cas was squinting at him in that very Castiel way that was just dripping with sincerity and interest. He sighed. "I- You're not unattr-" He sighed again, folding his arms and looking directly into his eyes. "Yes, for a dude, you're a pretty attractive dude."

This answer seemed to please Cas, and he almost smiled, reaching down to situate the belt. He leaned forward, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. "From what I've observed, you're something of a preferred male figure yourself."

"Thus ends tonight's episode of _Queer Eye for the Straight Angel_."

"Angel's don't actually have sexes, Dean," Cas' voice sounded strangely muffled through the shirt he was attempting to remove, and Dean watched in amusement as he struggled to get it over his head. "So we can't really have sexual preferences that can be defined as 'queer' or 'straight'."

"Thanks for getting me up to speed on that one, I was gonna lose sleep over it." He held a hand over his mouth to hide his laughter as Cas fought to get the shirt situated. "Cas, man, that's inside out now. And… And still backwards." He actually felt kind of bad chuckling at the look of dismay on the angel. "Here, lemme help."

He took the shirt off, turned it right side out and pulled it down over Cas' head. His deeply furrowed brow and seriousness of composure mixed comically with the damp hair now sticking out in staticy clumps. The laughter Dean had been reigning in so carefully broke loose all at once, and Cas frowned at him in disapproval.

"I'm sorry, it's just," Dean laughed some more, reaching out to gently ruffle his friend's hair. "It's the static from the shirt, you look unbelievably cute." His hand froze on Cas' head and he squinted his eyes, clearing his throat. "Er, I mean, ridiculous. You look unbelievably ridiculous."

"Those words are hardly close enough, either in pronunciation or meaning, for you to have misspoke-"

Loud power chords filled the room, causing both men to jump slightly. Deep Purple's _Smoke on the Water_ surrounded them, blaring from Dean's pocket. He stepped back and extracted the battered flip phone, checking the screen. "Hold on, it's Bobby, I gotta take this." Opening it and putting it against his head, he said "Hey there, Bobby, what's up?"

"… Are you with a girl right now?"

"What? No. Why?"

"You always answer your phone with that weird enthusiasm when you're closing in on finer pray-"

"Yeah, well, I'm not. Shit, a man can't answer his phone without being accused of shenanigans anymore. Did you think maybe I'm just excited to talk to you?"

"No I didn't, I'm not an idjit. And speaking of idjits, your brother isn't answering his damn phone. He called me earlier babbling about angel feathers and some really iffy sounding ritual,"

"Yeah, we need to open a trans dimensional tear in the fabric of our world so we can push the baddie back out… At least that's what Cas tells us, I only followed about half of it."

"Well that's a fine and dandy plan, but I've dug up everything I could find on angel feathers and I'm telling you right now you're not going to be able to get a hold of one very easily, if at all-"

"Bobby, I already-"

"Angel's don't lose their feathers unless they really want to, and they can only be removed by someone the angel trusts completely. This text I found mentions 'God's love' a few times, so I'm guessing it can only be done by someone the angel has unconditional love for, like what they share with their kin and with god. You'll have to see if Cas can have one of his brother's remove it maybe, but it's a long shot. Maybe we could find one already separated, but there's no guarantee if…"

Bobby continued talking, giving the usual careful advice and warnings, but it all droned into incomprehension for Dean. He was looking at Cas, who was watching him calmly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week on Supernatural: Cas and Dean sit around being kawaii at each other while Sam is off doing the actual episode. There's some well deserved smut at the end, so if smut's not your thing, you can always read it with your eyes closed.

"You were right, I do like Mr. Spock." Cas sat cross legged in the middle of the bed with ramrod straight posture, a bag of microwave popcorn balanced on his legs and a beer in his hand.

"Big surprise there," Dean said with a grin. He sat next to him on the queen bed, reclined against an impressive pile of pillows with his bare feet crossed at the ankles. "Literal talking birds of a feather."

"I want to know why, if the Captain and first officer are as interested in each other as you imply, they aren't together romantically." His tone was skeptical, as if he'd found a great flaw in Dean's reasoning.

"Because Kirk is a man who's married to his ship."

Cas frowned, clearly processing this bit of information. "… Are you married to your car?"

"Yes." He replied immediately. A wolfish grin followed. "But it's an open relationship. Oh, check out that stray hip touch from the captain! Drink up." With one hand, he produced a nearly full Crown Royal bottle, tossing back a drink himself before wagging it enticingly at the angel.

"Dean, I don't understand the point of this," He said, frowning as he accepted the bottle. "Drinking only when the Captain and the First Officer touch each other unnecessarily is a very inefficient way to get inebriated."

"You haven't seen enough of the original series." He replied, grinning at his own joke. "If you're in that big of a hurry to get wasted, we can add redshirt deaths and 'phasers on stun' to the list… or that. That'll work too." Dean closed his mouth and watched in quiet surprise as Cas leaned against him, the small of his back pressing against Dean's thigh as he upended the bottle and calmly drank the entire contents. "Fuck, Cas, that was… That was pretty boss."

Handing the empty bottle back over his shoulder, Cas squinted ahead at the TV set. "My mouth and extremities are… tingling."

"Kirk has that effect on people." He said, a sly smile spreading across his face.

"I believe it has more to do with the amount of alcohol I just consumed than the implied sexual attraction of Captain Kirk."

"That's what they all say."

"That's what who says?"

"That's what all the angel boys that get charmed by Kirk say."

Cas turned slowly from the tv to frown at the man behind him. "I think you're being facetious, Dean."

"And I'm not sure what that word means, but I think you're probably right. And I think you've come a long way from when we first met to realize when I'm just being an ass. I'd say we should drink to celebrate, but someone just sucked down the last of the liquor like Lindsay Lohan at a Disney after party."

"I don't know who that is, but if she's a human, I assure you I can drink more alcohol while retaining important motor skills than she can."

Dean's eyes immediately lit up at the thought of a staggering drunk Castiel; what a perfect opportunity to try and teach him more creative insults. "That sounds like an open challenge to all humans. There's a bar not too far into town that's probably still open-"

Turning back towards the tv, Cas looked almost embarrassed by the suggestion. As embarrassed as a six foot tall angel in an AC/DC shirt, six-o-clock-somewhere scruff and a Heineken in his hand could possibly look, anyway. "I am in awe of humans as they are made in my Father's image and are His fondest creation… However I am wary of them in large numbers, especially now when I am unable to use my powers."

Dean's thoughts turned to the room next door; the huge, truly awesome presence that had made him feel insignificant and breakable. The Cas in front of him right now seemed so small in comparison. So… Dean squinted his eyes, looking for the right word. So un-angelic. Sitting on a cheap motel bed in baggy clothes that weren't his own and watching human entertainment decades past its air date with a mortal known for playing it hot and loose with sin and perdition.

"You don't have to worry about that if you're with me," He said awkwardly, reaching out to the mini-fridge next to the bed and removing one of the last beers. "Hell, I spent most of my life fighting off every demon, angel and spook that even thought about threatening Sammy, I think I could handle a dive with a couple of rednecks on the off chance you piss em off. Beer?"

Cas considered this, accepting the bottle almost thoughtlessly. "I heard your name long before I pulled you from hell, Dean. 'Winchester', always spoken in cautious whispers."

"I'd hope so," He said with a laugh. "I raised enough hell, I hope they put my picture up in all the angel bars. With 'Deny service, don't accept anything but cash' written across the bottom."

The angel actually smiled at this. "No, Dean. You were the Michael sword. The great protector of man." The smile slipped away, replaced with a mournful sigh. "And I was charged with protecting you."

"Well, shit, Cas; Don't say that like you just put down the family dachshund. I'm fine- more than fine, actually. I'm pretty freaking awesome right now. I'm alive and I've been outta hell for years, so that's a pretty solid record as far as protector goes. Put that on a damn resume, 'Kept a Winchester alive for any amount of time whatsoever' is pretty impressive."

"You have been injured many, _many_ times under my care."

"Cas," Dean sighed dramatically, standing up. "I hate to break it to you, but I could be locked in a damn teddy bear factory and still find a way to fracture my collar bone and dislocate a few ribs in a matter of minutes. Getting injured is what I do. I need some of this popcorn." He finished, standing in front of Castiel and scooping some of the popcorn out of the bag on his lap.

Popping a few pieces into his mouth, he smirked down at his companion. "Hey buzzkill, catch."

The thrown kernel of popcorn bounced ineffectually off Cas' cheek, tumbling to the bedspread.

Staring soberly at each other, Dean kept on a straight face and scratched awkwardly at his neck. "You, uh, you're supposed to catch it in your mouth and eat it."

"… I don't think I have any interest in doing that."

"Okie dokie. You want a Twinkie?"

Cas had watched him closely as he had walked through the room, digging through his canvas duffel bag until he'd found a stash of emergency snacks (right next to the emergency packets of fast food table salt. You know, for ghosts). He now stared pensively at the offered treat. "Dean, you always have two of those cakes and you frequently offer me one. Do you purchase two of them just so you can give one to me?"

Sitting so still and staring so seriously at the Hostess pastry in Dean's hand with his head cocked to the side, he looked like an incredibly grave kitten. Dean tore himself away from those blue eyes and gave a short laugh, nodding earnestly. "I absolutely do, now take the damn Twinkie."

He accepted it before looking back at Dean in what could only be described as annoyance. "Sam wants to talk to you."

"Huh?" _Smoke on the Water_ came muffled from Dean's pocket, causing him to jump, his beer sloshing over on his hand. "Oh god damn it, can you hold this?" He didn't wait for a response, pushing the drink at a passively obedient Castiel and wiping his hands on his jeans before answering the phone."What's up, Sammy?"

Cas was clearly not pleased by the interruption. He held two beer bottles in one hand, his fingers wrapped around their necks, and the Twinkie sat flat in the palm of other one. He stared plaintively at Dean, who frowned and held up a finger, mouthing "Just a sec."

Despite his best efforts to remain apathetic towards human attention, Cas frowned, brooding and thundery.

"Aw hell, Sam, what'd you do to provoke them? No, I don't always say it's your fault! I'm just saying that many goats don't all attack at once without a reason."

Making a snap decision, Cas decided he was done holding things; angels were not brought into existence by God so they could hold concessions, after all. He opened his mouth and crammed the pastry in; devouring it in one bite just as he'd seen Dean do many times before.

The sight of Cas chewing contemplatively with his cheeks full to capacity and a tiny smudge of filling on his lip was almost distracting enough to make Dean hang up immediately. He bravely fought back his laughter and tried to focus on what his brother was telling him. "Great. Okay. Well, it sounds like you have that all under control, but thanks for the update."

Cas made eye contact with him and in a matter of seconds drained both beers in his possession, dropping them carelessly into the already full trashcan. He folded his arms impatiently.

"No, listen, I gotta run- They're goats! What're they gonna do, pick the car doors with their goat hooves?" He rolled his eyes, doing his best to end the conversation.

Ensuring Dean's eyes were still on him, Cas stood and purposefully strode towards the mini-fridge, pulling it open and grabbing the very last Guinness. He moved as if to hand it to Dean, who put a hand out for it, but instead changed direction at the last second, easily removing the cap with one thumb.

Dean's mouth fell open indignantly; the glug-glug of liquid escaping a small opening was the only sound accompanying the death of the final alcoholic beverage in the room. Cas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, burping quietly (and looking adorably surprised by the bodily function).

"Sammy, you've been in the damn Impala this whole time!" Dean snapped, much louder than he'd intended, but he could hardly be held accountable after witnessing such a traumatic loss. "Why don't you just drive off?" A couple seconds of listening, Dean snapped the phone shut. "He hadn't considered that." He announced, exasperated. Then his eyes fell on other, more urgent pray. Two steps, and he stood accusingly in front of Cas; arms folded and face full of disappointment. "You drank all my booze."

Their faces were inches away from each other; and Cas met his gaze with unrepentant haughtiness. "You answered a phone call while we were watching a show without pausing it." He loftily raised his chin, managing to look down his nose at Dean, despite the several inches he had on him. "Even I know that's socially frowned upon. Rude, even."

"Aw, come on! That's… Well, I guess that's true." He shuffled his feet. "But it's Sam, you know I have to answer when Sam calls."

"… I do know that. I understand."

For the first time when speaking to him, Dean got a sense of Castiel holding back; not meeting his eyes as he quickly conceded. The angel not speaking exactly what crossed his mind seemed highly unlikely, so Dean shrugged it off. "You're even more of a booze hound tonight than me." He said, flopping back onto the bed.

"There's nothing about my consumption that's canine in behavior." He looked from one bed to the next, deeply considering his options before sitting primly next to Dean on the closest one. "I was thirsty."

 

***

 

"Is Mr. Spock married to the ship, as well? Perhaps a polygamist relationship would be beneficial to the three of them." The intense curiosity Cas displayed for any programming shown to him was easily the most satisfying reaction any fan could dream of.

Dean couldn't help but smile contentedly at every question, wiggling his bare feet as he gave shamelessly in depth answers. Cas didn't even know what a fanboy was, so he could hardly accuse him of such unseemly behavior. "See, Vulcan's are set up in arranged marriages when they're kids, and every seven years they start getting an itch in their robes that their logic can't scratch and they have to return home to mate. Whereas humans still tend to get married based on bra and wallet sizes respectively."

"I thought the way contemporary monogamous humans typically choose a life mate is through an intricate trial period of careful romancing."

"Yeah, well, romance is a fantasy created by the Hallmark card company," Dean said with a scoff. "Signing your name under a shitty ass sonnet written by some mook you've never seen isn't love."

Cas' eyes squinted ever so slightly and he swallowed compulsively, despite not registering any biological need to do so. He reminded himself again how disinterested he was in the interaction. "How do you define love?"

"What?" Dean pressed his teeth together and glanced to the man sitting next to him, realized he was deadly serious, and gave a patented Dean sigh; complete with pursed lips and annoyed eye roll. "Ugh, I dunno, man. Someone you'll fight for," He trailed off, staring into the distance, seemingly lost in thought. He moved his right hand up to his left shoulder, listlessly worrying at a long-since-healed wound. "Someone who'll fight for _you_. It's not romance and crappy greeting cards."

"Dean, romance is an objective opinion. Just because this… Hallmark company produces sentiments you find insincere doesn't mean romance doesn't exist."

"Am I really getting lectured on dating by an immortal virgin, right now?"

"I'm not lecturing," He defended with a wounded frown. "I'm only curious. It's of no importance. I'm attempting to become more… In touch with the human condition, as you frequently reprimand me for my lack of knowledge in the area. Your comments made me wonder what your own interpretation of romance was."

He smiled disbelievingly. "Come on, Cas, this is a little gay, even for you."

"Well angels have no-"

"No sex," Dean said, nodding. "Yeah, I caught the last public service announcement."

Cas had turned his attention back to the TV, shrugging dismissively as he said, "It is unimportant."

"There wasn't anything in the bible warning me that angels pout this much." He grumbled, light hearted. He kicked up the pillow at the foot of the bed towards Cas teasingly, who dispelled it with an expressionless swipe of his arm.

They sat watching their show in silence.

After several sidelong glances that went either unnoticed or ignored, Dean sighed. "I wouldn't call it _romance_ ," He said the word heavy with italics. "But the way I would prefer to… Seduce someone I have long term hopes for… I don't know, playing music we like for each other. Camping. Hanging out with beers and watching good shows. I could never be with a chick any more than a few wham-bam-thank-ya-mams if she didn't have good taste in entertainment. Can you imagine me with some ice queen who doesn't like Terminator 2?" He said, shivering at the thought and shaking his head like he had a bad taste in his mouth.

"I enjoy that one- I find the large robot that appears human to be very relatable. I'm especially fond of the moments when he doesn't understand human colloquialisms." Cas smiled crookedly at the memory of the movie.

Dean's grin split across his face and his eyes sparkled at the irony of Cas saying this. "Yeah, that's my favorite, too."

Talking subsided again, haunting theremin playing quietly from the TV.

This time, Cas broke the silence. "Do you have an ideal romantic setting?"

Again, Dean searched his face for humor or mischief, but found only bored, passive interest. 'Hell, why not.' He told himself. "That's easy; best place to be _with_ my baby is _inside_ my baby, parked on some back road somewhere, good music on the radio and stars in the sky." He smiled proudly after this, feeling rather poetic.

They both stared at a gripping fight scene on the set in front of them, Kirk and Spock tumbling over each other in a battle against several similarly-ill-dressed aliens.

Cas kept his expression carefully neutral when the cell rang again, vibrating the mattress underneath them.

Grimacing guiltily, Dean hit the pause button on the remote and answered the phone. "Yeah, Sammy?" Guilt quickly turned to concern and he sat up, putting his feet on the floor. "Shit, you gotta be kidding me. What the hell were so many people doing at the cemetery in the first place? It's almost one in the morning! Midnight-candle-lit vigil? Bullshit. Some of these backwoods towns are so freakin' weird. _No way_ , they showed up to the grave _you were desecrating_?"

The other half of the conversation was lost to Cas, but he watched out of the corner of his eye as Dean listened intently, putting a hand over his mouth. His torso shook silently, and for a confusing moment, Cas thought he was sobbing.

Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, Dean leaned his head back and released a few rounds of gleeful chuckling before composing himself and returning to the call. "Well that's not so bad, they didn't actually catch you, so the tar and feathering is no more than a good natured threat. And you got the dirt! No harm no foul, right?" He examined his fingernails absently while Sam spoke on the other end. "Nah, I don't think you need my help. Sounds like you've got it all under control. Yeah. Great. Oh, and Sammy? There's probably worse things to be called than 'corpse fucker'."

"I take it Sam ran into some trouble with the locals?"

"Yeah, you could say that." Dean laughed mirthfully, slapping his thigh. "Oh man, that kid finds trouble everywhere he goes." He turned back towards the bed, grinning uncontrollably, but Cas no longer sat on the edge. He was kneeling directly behind Dean, hands sitting carefully in his lap.

A snarky comment about personal space was working its way out of Dean's mouth, he was so used to making them when Cas stood too close that it was near conditioning at this point, but he swallowed it down and cleared his throat. "Hiya, Cas." His eyes drifted down to the bare skin below Cas' neck, a scantily teasing view of his prominent collarbone revealed by the slightly-too-wide neck of Dean's shirt that had slipped to one side. 'Indecent.' He thought with a head shake, reaching out and slowly centering the fabric on his shoulders. Before he could pull it back, Cas' hand clapped unexpectedly over his own, causing Dean to jump slightly. "Wha-"

Cas closed his hand firmly around Dean's, keeping it at his neck where he'd originally put it. "My… extremities all feel increasingly warm and the tingling isn't going away. I believe the longer alcohol is in my system, the more it begins to affect me." He blinked solemnly as he spoke, as if he were discussing drab case facts, but the blue eyes boring into Dean's carried all the emotion missing from his speech. "I need to try something."

Dean's mouth felt dry and he realized he hadn't taken a breath since he'd reached out to fix the loose shirt. He closed his eyes, trying to recall what they'd been talking about seconds earlier, when lips pressed against his own and all the heat in his body dispersed between his face and his crotch. His hand was released and he felt fingers slide softly into his short hair. He'd kissed with scruff before, but never on the receiving end; the tickling of facial hair against his cheeks was so foreign that it made him feel light headed and giddy. For the first time in Dean's entire life, he froze right up when someone kissed him. Cas' soft, imploring lips broke away from his and he hadn't moved a single inch.

A flush of red covered Cas' face, spreading from the tops of his cheeks to the bridge of his nose. He pulled away, sitting back on the bed. His eyes were wide with ill-disguised panic. "I believe I may have misread the current situation…" He squinted, thinking wishfully of his powers and the ability to make himself be anywhere but here. "I think the alcohol may have-"

The rest of this thought went the way of all half concocted excuses as Cas felt himself pushed back onto the mattress. Dean's mouth closed over his, demanding where Cas' had been requesting, pushing his lips apart with his tongue without waiting for an invitation.

Dean held a fistful of the AC/DC shirt tightly, using it to push him into the bed as he straddled his waist and continued kissing insistently. His free hand skimmed curiously along the angel's side and chest, exploring the hard muscles concealed beneath the cotton shirt.

Cas moaned against his mouth, pushing up against Dean's restraint. He slowly moved his right hand along the human's upper arm, pushing his short sleeve out of the way and lining his hand up perfectly with the scar on his shoulder without giving a single thought to it. There was a flash behind his eyes and some type of electric jolt passed from his hand to Dean's arm, causing both of them to gasp in surprise.

Literally in the blink of an eye, Dean's eye to be specific, Cas had grabbed his other shoulder and pushed him to the side, reversing their positions with a seamless twist. He protested, attempting to switch back, but Cas had the undeniable upper hand in strength. Dean was left to stare up at him in anticipation. Cas started kissing him again, both hands finding their way to his hair, massaging his scalp until his eyes rolled back, closing in pleasure

A lurch in his stomach and Dean began to realize that the bed had hardened beneath him. His eyes snapped open and he pulled back from Cas, staring around. The unmistakable smell of leather upholstery and engine oil surrounded them.

Cas looked just as surprised by the change of scenery, also glancing around the familiar interior of the Impala.

Journey's _Wheel in the Sky_ played quietly from the radio in the front seat.

"You got your mojo back?"

"I hadn't realized my powers were functioning," A blush reddened his face even more and he frowned down apologetically at Dean. "I guess I must have subconsciously desired this location strong enough to over ride my temporary impotence."

"Shit, from where I'm sitting, I gotta say I don't think impotency was _ever_ a problem for you…"

Cas smiled and leaned back down to kiss him when the cell phone rang. Both men froze, staring at each other as the ring tone started over.

"I'll call him back," Dean said, tugging him back down by the front of his shirt.

Allowing himself to be pulled against him, he kissed Dean once more before sitting up and extracting himself. "He may be in danger, you have to answer it. If he's being strangled to death as we speak, calling him back is a bad course of action." He spoke calmly, but Dean did not miss the hint of annoyance on his face.

He sighed and sat up himself, pulling the phone from his back pocket. "Sup, Sam."

"Dean, we have a situation here."

"I had my own situation going on before you called," He muttered sourly. "I can hear that you aren't currently dying, so if I could call you back, that'd be-"

"No, listen, I came by the church to check it out and inside there's-"

"Damn it!" The yell was angry enough to cause Cas to flinch next to him. "You went into the church by yourself at night _without telling me_? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Well I got kicked out of the angel and friends club, what the hell else was I gonna do?"

"You couldn't have just played with goats a little longer?"

"Dean, just get out here. And if Cas is still with you, bring him along, too."

"Fine, whatever. I gotta-"  
"Dean, wait!" Sam's voice sounded unusually strained and it was a few seconds before he began speaking again. "Dean, I… I parked the Impala behind the church and… and it's gone."

Dean looked around the interior of his baby and smiled at Cas before donning a furious glare. "God damn it, Sam." He said, deathly quiet, before snapping the phone shut.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This finale got outta hand, I'd apologize for it but it contains all of my very favorite things (ghost fighting, Mettallicar porn, Dean being a badass etc.), so I won't. One more chapter, I promise we're close and you'll get an actual rewarding end, just bear with me.
> 
> If you want the full Supernatural effect intended, listen to Zeppelin's _Black Dog_ while reading the intro.

The quaint church nestled cozily in the hills was an entirely different matter this time of night. The picturesque southern scene from earlier in the day had disappeared with the sun, replaced with a mote of shadow hovering silently over the area, an angular building with a menacing air squatting in the center. Opaque fingers of overgrown vegetation curled from the edges of the lawn, giving Sam chilling nostalgia of Wendigo claws and witch hands.

He paced around the back of the parking lot, collar turned up and shoulders hunched against the light sprinkling still spuriously weeping from the sky. He was muttering under his breath as his abnormally long strides carried him from one end of the asphalt to the other; quietly rehearsing what he was going to say to his brother once he got here.

"It could have happened just as easily to you, man. I locked the door (he hadn't) and rolled all the windows up (he couldn't actually remember if the windows were up or down, but it had been raining all night so this seemed like a good bet) just like you always do." He sighed, rubbing at his eyes and pushing his hair back out of his face.

The Impala was Dean's only truly important possession. Just as John had shown more affection for it than he did for either of them, Sam really wasn't sure where brother and car fell on Dean's list of priorities, and this seemed like a really bad way to find out.

"If you got a newer model, you could really save on gas- Oh, fuck!" He turned on the ball of his foot and stepped directly into a figure that hadn't been there on his last lap. He registered a familiar band shirt and an even more familiar brown leather coat. With another loud curse, he stepped back and cringed away from his brother. "Shit, man, I am so sorry, it was right here and I just… wha…"

Something soft landed on the top of his head and a multitude of small pieces poured down to bounce off his shoulders and fall to the ground. He straightened up, shaking his head to dispel a paper bag and dozens of kernels of popcorn. He blinked ahead not at Dean, but at Castiel dressed scarily similar to him. "Cas, what the hell?"

"You're supposed to catch it in your mouth and eat it." Castiel answered, frowning in a show of disappointment. "Buzzkill."

"What are you talking about? Where's Dean?"

Instead of answering, Cas looked over his shoulder towards the curve of the road expectantly.

Over the distant grumbling from the inky turmoil far off in the sky, Sam heard music. The unmistakable bluesy riffs that were Jimmy Page's trademark, to be specific, bouncing psychedelically through the tiny valley. The vocalizing chorus of Zeppelin's _Black Dog_ spoke the identity of the newcomer louder than a fully lit marquee. " _I gotta roll, can't stand still- got a flamin' heart, can't get my fill!_ " The sleek, contoured body of the Impala slid into view, moonlight reflecting off the droplets of water freckling her black frame to give the already beautiful car an eerily incandescent appearance. The Chevy banked into the parking lot with all the smooth grace of a 1960-anything Corvette and at least twice the power, as challenged by the carefully reigned in purring of the lovingly cared for engine. Dean Winchester sat in the drivers seat; the only place on Earth, Heaven, or Hell that he truly felt he belonged. The collar of his jacket was turned up against the slight chill surrounding the church, but his left elbow rested out the open window, hands tapping the steering wheel in time with the drums. " _Eyes that shine burning red, dreams of you all through my head!_ "

If cars walked, Dean's Impala pranced.

Sam shook his head with a mix of disbelief and almost hysterical relief at the sight. He'd been prepping himself for very-likely-violent outbursts when he got around to delivering the news of the missing automobile and he was so thankful to see it, that he decided to not even question him about taking it without telling him.

Coming to an effortless stop as centered in the parking space as was possible without pulling out a tape measure, Dean cranked the window up and turned the key, getting out. The already menacing atmosphere seemed even more foreboding after the familiar music cut off, leaving only a strangely charged, crackling silence in its place. "'Sup, bitch?" He slammed the door, grinning at Sam as he walked towards the pair.

"I have your keys." Sam said, putting only a little accusation in his tone as he extended the simple keyring.

"Yeah," He grabbed it, smiling fondly at the keys before tucking them into his front pocket. "Yeah, I keep a spare under the sole in my boot. So what's the major malfunction that couldn't wait until I slept tonight off?" Before Sam could answer him, Dean frowned, reaching out to pluck something from his collar. "Is this popcorn?"

Cas, staring at the church apparently deep in thought and paying no attention to them, cleared his throat.

Sam knocked the kernel from his hand, annoyed by his bemused expression and, surely, feigned innocence. "Focus. We're gonna need every last bit of ghost deterrent and all of the salt we can carry from the car."

Instead of wasting time asking why, Dean went to work at the word 'ghost', opening the trunk and gathering the supplies, confident Sam would explain when necessary. He passed a fully loaded sawed off shotgun to Sam, and then held out a longer barreled twelve gauge to Cas. They only had the two shotguns with them, but the idea of not giving one to Cas never even occurred to him; he could use one of the iron swords, it didn't matter as long as Cas had protection. When it stayed in his hand, he glanced at the angel, who smiled patronizingly at him like he was a kid making a stupid joke. "Oh. Right. Angel mojo." He tucked the gun under his own arm, trying to not appear flustered by the the lapse. Vulnerable, tipsy Cas was back in the hotel only; this was battle-ready Cas-Bot who would probably end up saving everyone's ass by the end of the night, and certainly didn't need mortal weapons to do so.

Once the two humans were armed beyond even Winchester standards of preparation, they headed to the back of the church. Following Sam around the edge of the building and striding past the brick wall, Dean found himself staring around the corner at the church's cemetery he hadn't realized existed. It looked to have been around much longer than the church itself. Ancient, hand chiseled markers stretched from one waist high, cobbled wall to the other, filling every foot of land right up to the beginning of the smooth incline of the hills.

"Hoo-lee Jupiter shit." He breathed, bringing the shotgun that he'd been holding casually by his waist up to grip in both hands, surveying the scene in front of them. He visibly switched to high-alert.

Every grave was yawning open, giant chunks of grass and earth scattered across the ground as if every coffin had been excavated with dynamite.

"I drove by and watched one of the younger nuns go inside-"

"Damn it, what is wrong with this clergy? Those nuns have got a serious… bad… habit of hanging around when they shouldn't." Dean smiled slowly at his companions, but got only blank and unimpressed frowns in return. "Huh?"

"I believe you're attempting to cultivate humor by intentionally using a relevant homophone." Cas said. He nodded encouragingly, not wanting to disappoint his friend.

Dean put a hand over his eyes. "Please don't ever explain my jokes again, Cas."

He smiled pleasantly. "Alright."

"Explaining it wasn't what ruined it," Sam muttered before continuing as if he hadn't been interrupted. "So she went in by herself and almost immediately afterward, there was a serious pyrotechnics show in the chapel and these huge explosions of dirt back here. It was all at once, like a demolition. And I saw em, Dean. Every single coffin, something rose out of it, and they all Casper'd right into the church."

"Aw man, how come you get to see the ghost Floyd laser show? I've never seen that many ghosts move at once."

"Cuz you were too busy on your angel date night to come check it out with me?"

Dean responded by shoving him the rest of the way beyond the corner, walking after him. "Come on, let's go crash Luigi's Mansion."

The lock on the rear door slowed him down for all of 12 seconds, 6 of which were spent fishing the lock pics out of the duffel bag.

"I can't continue with you."

Dean froze, pick set still in his hand, door swinging closed behind Sam. "Oh. Right. Well, don't go too far, we might need a getaway transport."

"Understood."

Moving to open the door, Dean stopped, turning back when Cas spoke his name in his deep, raspy voice.

"I have no knowledge of the entity you're about to face, but I have no other choice than to allow both of you to charge in… blind." He frowned at his own word choice. "Proverbially speaking, that is. It is of my knowledge that you both still retain your vision, however I-"

Dean's smirk grew more blatant the more Cas got off topic. "You trying to ask me to be careful?"

Closing his mouth, he nodded with a smile.

"I'll do my best. You stay outta trouble, yourself." He reached out, flattening the collar on the coat Cas wore, his hand lingering at the neck. "I'd really hate for anything to happen to this coat." He finished with a laugh and a silent wink.

He caught up with Sam in the rear entryway.

"Took you long enough."

"Shut up. I had to tell Cas to hang around in case we need a quick escape."

"Mmm hmm."

The mocking in Sam's tone did not go unnoticed. Dean shoved past him, checking him with his shoulder as he passed to stand at the opening to a dark hallway, glaring down it. "You hear that?"

Soft, ragged crying was wafting towards them from the end of the hall like a cool breeze from an air conditioner. They looked at each other, and Sam nodded.

"In the building five friggin seconds. It's gonna be one of those." With Dean in the lead, they walked down the hall, hands hovering carefully near un-drawn/un-raised weapons. They passed a panel of light switches that Sam perfunctorily flipped, expecting no more than the lack of results he received.

Turning the corner, the crying intensified. The increasing darkness was dispelled as Dean turned on his flash light, peering ahead as best he could. The very edge of the light fell on a figure turned away from them, hunched, quivering shoulders of a woman in a conservative floor length dress. The crying was swelling to hysterical sobbing the closer they got.

"Last stop before crazy town," Dean muttered under his breath, bringing the shotgun up and holding the forend in the same hand as the flashlight to finally point both at the despondent woman. "Ghost or person, Sammy?"

"I-it's too dark to tell. But you can't just shoot her without confirmatio-"

" _My baaaaaaaaaby_ …" The inconsolable wail made both of them freeze.

"Go ask her." Dean prompted.

Sam stared uneasily down the length of the hall and then wordlessly held his fist out to Dean.

After a masterfully crafted strategy from Dean (rock, scissors, rock, if you're curious), Sam stalked bitterly towards the figure. "Ma'am? Ma'am, do you need help?"

She didn't respond. Dean cocked his gun resolutely.

Sam flailed a hand, motioning Dean to wait before pointing his own weapon at the woman and reaching bravely for her shoulder. "Ma'am, we're-"

"Sammy, don't-!"

His hand was still a foot away when she suddenly bent at the waist, leaning backwards to stare at him upside down. He had a split second to take in her black, empty eye sockets and paper white skin; dark veins spider webbing across her gaunt face. She let out a piercing shriek, throwing something at him that he instinctively caught. He gaped down at the rotting, ghostly fetus he held, yelling unintelligibly before dropping it and scrambling backwards.

"Get down!" Dean barked, shouldering his gun.

The ghost was lunging backwards towards him, one skeletal hand already clenched tight around his wrist, the other reaching for his face. He dropped to the floor, watching as the load of rock salt from behind him tore into the woman like a blast of air into a cloud of smoke and she swirled away into nothingness.

Sam stood shakily, rubbing his lower back where he'd landed on the floor. He was grimacing in disgust. "Maaaan, ghost fetus is so something my night could have done without." He wiped his hands on his jeans, unable to shake the memory of the tiny corpse.

"I'm making an executive plan," Dean said, removing something from his pocket and fitting it over his right hand. "Whole building's ghosts. We gotta figure out where big bad's put the girl, get her outta here and not let these spirits ruin our shit in the process." He clenched his hand experimentally, grinning down at the iron knuckle duster adorning his fist.

Sam nodded, extracting a foot long iron short sword from the duffel bag around his brother's shoulder. "All of the incidents have happened or started in the chapel. I'll bet you laundry for a week that's where he'd hold a hostage."

"Good enough for me." Reloading and stuffing a cylindrical container into his jacket pocket, Dean glanced around, recalling the layout he'd automatically memorized earlier. "Those doors back there. Let's bust some ghosts and kill this otherworldly mother fucker."

Getting to the door, Dean signaled for Sam to go in right and high, claiming low left for himself. After trying the unmoving handle with what could only be described as sarcastic hope, he leaned back and kicked into the door, sending the knob flying and the door swinging. With carefully practiced precision, they advanced into opposite sides of the wide room, sweeping the visible area for threats.

Four steps in and Dean felt a hand close over his ankle, jerking his leg out from underneath him. He tucked his elbows, holding the gun tightly against his chest, and hit the floor hard on his side. Rolling to his back and kicking instinctively at whatever was clawing at his leg, he brought the shotgun around. A small, black haired boy was clenching his thigh, blood oozing from the fingernail sized holes that the grip left behind. He was reaching forward with bloody, stunted fingers. A slack, poorly reconstructed face gawked at the gun barrel, dislocated jaw waving as he tilted his head and moaned " _D-Daaaddy_?"

"Not without a paternity test, Oliver Twist." A squeeze of the trigger dispelled the apparition, and Dean yelled through his teeth as stray salt tore into the side of his calf, blood peppering the floor around him.

A few yards away, Sam was having his own issues, having come face to face with a white haired giant of a man that towered over even his own considerable height. Dressed in early American Puritan garb, the man held a huge pitch fork tightly in both hands, an item he must have been buried with. Even as the pitchfork was lowered and he was rushed with a primal growl of rage, Sam idly imagined his brother referring to the spirit as 'Jedidiah' and couldn't help but smirk.

He steadied his footing and swung the sword, not bothering with the shotgun in such close proximity. The dull blade forced the hulking figure to dissolve with a frustrated roar, and he pulled his arm back, reversing the grip he had on the short sword and using the hand to steady his gun as he whipped around.

And frowned. He'd been so positive that there was a creep behind him, waiting for the best opportunity to give him a scare before attacking. He squinted around the unnaturally dark chapel, unable to make out even the rows and rows of pews he knew were directly in front of him. He longed for a light; the flashlight Dean had carried into the room now cast a fluorescent crescent-moon glow against the wall furthest from him.

Loud, threatening strings of cursing coupled with telling muzzle flashes pinpointed Dean's location across the way; hysterical laughter proceeded every flash of gunfire as he combated what must be a highly emotional spook.

Sam moved towards the conflict, pulling out a couple of shells and beginning to reload, but something made him stop, again sensing a presence nearby. The hair on the back of his neck prickled and then prickled some more, turning into an urgent itch. Absently reaching to scratch, his hand delved into hair that was not his own hanging from somewhere above his head.

His yell of disgust choked away into garbled gasps of panic when hands circled his throat, lifting him off the ground. The shotgun that had been tucked under his arm clattered to the floor as he kicked wildly at the air.

"Deaaanghghg-!" His cries for help were no more than choked, pathetic gags. The two shells he'd been loading were still clenched tightly in his hand, and he fumbled with them desperately, gasping for air. After he had began to see colorful spots and the pain in his chest felt irreversible, he threw his hands up, scattering the contents of the open shells into the spectral face above him. She recoiled, hissing like a cat in annoyance.

All six feet, four inches of him crashed to the floor in a painful heap of long limbs and regrets. Flapping his arms across the carpet until finding the nearby shotgun and cocking it in one hand, he twisted onto his back and fired towards the hissing on the ceiling until he was rewarded with abrupt silence.

Across the room, Dean was yelling nasty taunts at the maniacally laughing old man that kept popping up and vanishing before any shots could land. Despite the harried grimace on his face as he scanned the blackness for his target, Dean calmly loaded the shotgun with confident, practiced motions. "What's so funny, Chuckles? An eternity without your loved ones cracking you up?"

Suddenly his head was forced back by powerful, icy fingers on his face; spindly thumbs with sharp, jagged fingernails finding his eyes and pressing mercilessly against the sockets. Mad cackling pounded into his ears as the ghost pressed upsettingly close, and visions of exploding eyeballs lit a tiny flame of panic in the hunter's mind. He flinched away and pushed down awkwardly on the trigger of the gun now resting cozily between them, the barrel right beneath the ghost's jaw.

Stumbling a few steps after the pressure on his head had vanished, Dean reeled from the painful ringing in his ears left from the shot. He straightened, trying to shake the tinnitus out like water left from a swim, and slowly became aware of soft sobbing behind him.

"I'm getting real sick of this shit," He growled, spinning around.

Before he finished turning, backwards-walking-baby-mamma caught his shotgun with one hand, pushing the barrel uselessly towards the ceiling. He didn't even take the time to make a snappy comment as he released the weapon and continued with his momentum, landing what would have been a perfect right hook on her distorted face. The iron encircling his knuckles sent her shrieking into oblivion.

Dean took a moment to catch his breath, bracing his hands on his knees and leaning heavily forward. "Sam?" He panted into the darkness. "Talk to me, Sam." He stood, walking shakily to the corner where his black flashlight lay discarded. The light started to flicker hopelessly once he picked it up, winking what he imagined were crass insults in Morse Code before giving up entirely. "Too many mother fucking ghosts in this mother fucking church." He grumbled, pocketing the light.

"Dean! Over here."

He turned towards the voice. "I think maybe our plan could have used a little more planning."

"I thought that was their charm."

He mockingly repeated this comment, moving towards his brother's voice. A sudden peal of thunder shook the building and rattled the windows while the almost immediate flash of lightning illuminated the cavernous room. Sam was in plain sight now, blinking bemusedly in the light. A giant, angry looking man with an equally giant pitchfork stood behind him, and a young woman in an insubstantial wedding gown coiled, wraith like, above him on the lower ceiling he stood beneath. Both were reaching in unison.

"Sammy, it's a bushwhack! Get down!" He bellowed just as powerful hand clapped over his own shoulder. He was too focused on getting to his brother to spend any time worrying about this mook, and with an almost careless wave he popped the lid off the container in his pocket and emptied it behind him. He caught the briefest glance of an ominous figure in a priest get up before the rock salt caught it full in the face and it vanished with a howl.

Sam was directly in front of him, but across the surprisingly large field of uniformed benches. The space between aisles was far too tight to run in efficiently and there was only one logical path from A to B. Dean rationalized all of this as he was jumping onto the nearest pew and sprinting in the direction of Sam's gurgling cries. "I'm coming, don't-" The small hand came right out of the seat of the bench, grabbing his foot and sending him flailing forward.

As he fell, the aisle between seats filled with the ghastly form of the giant goon he'd seen behind Sam. The man's pitchfork was thrust up to meet Dean's fall, and he could do nothing to stop the impact.

Their father's journal had a tiny entry on phantom weapons, less than half a page in the section devoted to ghosts: _Some spirits are capable of creating a spectral projection of a physical object if there was a strong enough attachment to it and if it was buried along with the body in the original grave. Weapons of this nature cause no real tissue damage, but the pain is said to be the same_. A few inches underneath this, a group of words were circled in red ink: _likely to cause fatal heart attacks_

He focused on recalling this entry word for word rather than watch the ghostly prongs sliding into his chest. "Sonofa… bitch." He groaned, weakly kicking his feet against the floor, struggling to stand. The footing didn't matter much when his knees refused to work and he slumped forward, shaking from the effort.

The small boy was again clawing up his legs, moaning for his father, and ahead of him he could clearly hear Sam's struggling weakening, his gasps fading. Even if he could get one down, there were so many left to deal with, and surrendering to the whispers of unconsciousness seemed so much easier. But being a Winchester is never about picking the easiest path. Even as he felt his heart seize, he swung his fists uselessly at the ghost grinning in front of him, rashly hoping to land a hit with his knuckleduster despite the yards between them.

Not for the first time, Dean was physically aware of his heart rate slowing; combating bravely, but without success, against a supernatural force. Impaled, feet off the ground, his determination faltered. His thoughts became increasingly muddled, but one image stuck out from the rest; a rumbled, brown, trench coat. "Cas…" He groaned, pushing feebly at the pitch fork. "Cas…"

Then a stronger thought muscled past his premature laments. One so obvious that he felt actual pain at how stupid they had been. "God damn it, Castiel!" He gritted his teeth, filled again with his usual obstinate determination, and began pulling himself off of the spectral farming tool. "Angel of the Lord and continual savior of my ass, I'm praying for you and you damn well better pay attention!" He gasped at the pain in his chest and did his best to ignore it. "Salt and burn every one of those bodies out there, man, or the Winchester Variety Hour is about to get canceled for good." There was no way to know if the angel could actually hear him, but he was out of ideas.

The boy closed his hands around Dean's throat and hair, choking off his air and pulling him back to stare at the huge man above him, who moved threateningly forward, pitch fork at the ready. The ghost bearing down on him stopped suddenly, frowning, before bursting into the prettiest flames Dean had ever seen. He rolled to the side, raspy laughter in between gasps for air.

Silence filled the room; a nice refrain from the busy, panicked bedlam from before.

After a fit of coughing and swearing, Sam staggered to his feet. "Did… Did Cas just burn the bodies?"

"Yeah, I just told him to."

"Why didn't we do that before coming in?"

For a moment, Dean could only laugh in response. He climbed onto the bench, sitting to reload his gun. "I'm still drunk; what's your excuse?"

"I had a rough childhood?" Sam's answer only made Dean laugh harder, and he couldn't help but join along in amused chagrin.

"Awesome." Dean said with a grin, rubbing his chest disconcertingly before standing up. "Hope Chuck never puts that in the books." The flashlight had no problems working now, and he shone it around the room, looking for anything out of place- apart from the numerous spatterings of buckshot along the walls, anyway. "Man, I'll tell ya, I thought American Gothic was it for me."

"…Big guy with a pitchfork?"

"Yeah?"

Sam gave him a strangely disappointed look. "I thought you'd call him 'Jedidiah'."

"Well I hope you learned your lesson about putting me in a box."

The younger man was walking around the perimeter slowly, not investigating so much as thinking.

"What's on your mind, Samantha?"

He stood still, frowning around the room. "She should be in here, man. And if she isn't, we should be able to hear her somewhere- these ghosts would've scared that poor girl outta her mind."

Both had stopped moving, straining their ears for any sounds of distress.

"I don't hear anything, Sammy." Dean said finally, eying the several different exits wistfully. "You sure she wasn't a ghost? If she was a ghost, we can get outta here-"

"Yeah, man. She got dropped off my Colonel Sanders in a Ford, she's not a ghost. And I woulda sworn shit was going down in here!"

"Hmm." Dean was pacing from door to door and he was starting to favor his left leg the more he walked. "I don't like this, man. Helpless nun in distress is starting to look an awful lot like hunter bait."

"And we can't fight this thing right now. I bet he knows that." Sam agreed, nodding.

Dean slowly turned to his brother, a deep frown of disappointment on his face. "Well he knows now for sure!" He snapped. "Maybe we should go."

"We can't just leave her…" Another lightning flash filled the room with its blue, alien glow and Sam found himself gaping towards the front of the chapel where Dean stood, too busy lamenting his stupidity to notice anything else. "Dean…"

"What's up? You see something? You wanna give a full rundown of either of our psychological weaknesses?"

Sam wordlessly moved next to him, attempting to take the flashlight. When Dean elbowed his hand away and glared reproachfully at him, he rolled his eyes and instead pointed to a spot high on the wall behind the pulpit.

"Don't be snatchin' shit," He reprimanded as he moved the flashlight up. "Aw, hell."

They'd found the nun.

Stripped and secured to the full size crucifix with her own robes, there was no question she was dead. Blood poured down the young woman's body, dripping off of her gathered feet but never falling to the floor; pooling in the middle of the air on some invisible, paranormal drip tray. A crown of barbed wire twisted, snake like, though her hair.

The symbolism was too heavy for even the jaded Winchesters to crack a joke about.

"Where do you think the barbed wire came from?" Sam's awe filled whisper finally broke the uncomfortable silence.

Dean again turned painfully slow towards him, his face screwed up in disgust. "That's your question?"

"I don't know, man."

Ignoring him, Dean glared intently up at the horrifying 'art' on the wall. "We gotta go."

"What? Dean, no, we gotta get her down."

"Ain't in our job description, Sammy." Dean said, retrieving his duffel bag. His calf was wet and slick with blood. He hadn't examined the damage yet, but every brush of the tattered denim against the wound sent an itching burn shooting up his leg. He'd had worse. "Come on, Sam. I'm not kidding. Let's bail before this trap gets-"

The big entry doors slammed shut despite neither side having a latch to actually close. (Doors don't historically survive dramatic Winchester entrances).

With an annoyed, unsurprised sigh, Dean tried to open it. The hallway beyond was clearly visible through the splintered frame and destroyed handle mechanism, but it wouldn't budge. He threw his shoulder against it half-heartedly, not really expecting it to help.

Sam swung the butt of his gun into one of the floor to ceiling stained glass windows, holding an arm up to ward off falling glass. But the glass didn't fall; it stayed shattered in place. He sighed. "Guess we-"

"If you say 'sprung the trap', you're walking back to the motel."


	8. Chapter 8

Dusky orange reflections shimmered off the slick, black steel of the Impala's hood; the dying glow of smoldering remains that had been gathered into a bonfire at the edge of the cemetery.

Four empty plastic bags sat neatly folded on one end of the back seat, the rock salt they'd contained had melted away in the crackling fire. Castiel sat in the center of the long rear bench, unblinking eyes glaring in concentration at the building ahead.

The second the boys had stepped into the chapel, Cas had lost direct sight of them. Trying to tune in on them now was like searching a fog bank for a single cloud; he caught disjointed words and no more. The church by itself had something to do with it, the psychic energy radiating from it was like a powerful current that he had to actively push against just to be near.

There were other places that required his presence. Right now, in an abandoned chunk of the Nevada desert, twelve angels stood facing each other, speaking heatedly of loyalty with wings expanding like hackles on dogs. In heaven, one preached animatedly to numerous others of quashing the rebellion.

He let the tangled voices of his brothers drop to the back of his consciousness, focusing on the church. Rain beat a steady tattoo against the metal roof, and he found himself counting the drops that hit simultaneously, the concentration easing his concern.

 

***

 

"Remember that time I was electrocuted?"

Sam didn't respond, busy cordoning off the area around them with a thick, lopsided circle of salt.

"Well I remember." Dean had his back to the wall, leaning heavily against it and grimacing painfully as he kneaded his chest. "It felt super compared to this; my heart feels like a sub-woofer." He snorted, thunking his fist against his chest like he did to shorted motel TVs.

"Well, beating on it like Tarzan isn't going to help." His brother reprimanded.

Sliding to the floor, Dean pulled his ruined pant leg up, gritting his teeth as the denim separated painfully from the multiple wounds. At first glance, it looked unsettlingly like raw hamburger, but it was nothing more than surface damage. He summoned all of his stoic manliness and set about picking out the embedded crystals.

"So. Coming in tonight may not have been the best course of action." The tinge of guilt in Sam's voice would have gone unnoticed by someone else, but it was more than enough apology between the brothers.

"Yeah. I was having a pretty good night before this, too." He pulled out a pocket knife, jaw muscles visibly tightening as he braced himself before forcing the tip of the blade into one of the deeper wounds. A tiny piece of blood soaked salt finally wiggled free and he unclenched his teeth, gasping painfully.

"So you keep saying. Finally teach Cas to paint your toenails?" Sam asked with a wry smile from where he knelt next to the duffel bag, searching its contents.

"He's an angel, Sammy." He replied with an eye roll. "He's been doing that for me for years. Doesn't even need polish, just points and says the color."

Walking over, Sam stood above him with folded arms. "And what color are you sporting tonight?"

"Scarlet, to match all the blood I- _you fucking bastard!_ " Dean's surprised bellow cut through the air. While he was talking, Sam had smoothly bent over, pouring something out of the flask he'd been concealing onto Dean's exposed leg.

He kicked his leg reflexively and threw his head against the wall, panting out insults. "God damn it, you seven foot freak! Give me a warning next time!"

"So you can tell me to shove my Florence Nightingale shit up my ass and you'll let it get infected just like the road rash you got on your side when you fell off that shapeshifter's motorcycle in Denver?"

"Wish mom and dad had stopped at one." Dean replied, glaring at the rivers of diluted blood streaking down his calf.

"Yeah, you and the angels both." Sam grinned.

Pushing his pant leg down, Dean sniffed curiously at the air. "Wait, is that vodka? You been holding out on me?"

"You don't drink anything clear."

"Oh, yeah." His grin lit up his face and for a moment they could have been laughing at a sitcom over a beer together; a regular person's Saturday night.

There was a hiss of displaced air as something hurtled towards the younger Winchester; the Priest's large, ornate bible from the front of the room sailed right into Sam's face.

His head cocked back and he stumbled, shouting unintelligible combinations of profanity while blood poured freely from his nose and split lip. "Fuckin shiddy dicks, mudder fuckin ghost brick!" He probably meant 'prick', but speaking through the bloody waterfall of a broken nose can be difficult. "I'm gonna-"

His threat cut off when the podium that the bible had rested on flew into Sam's chest, throwing him off his feet and into the back wall with a squawk like a startled pelican.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled, scrambling to his feet and running towards the heap of Sam and splintered wood. There was an ominous woosh behind him and he didn't need his brother's feeble grunt of warning to know to hit the deck.

He fell onto his knees, ducking towards the floor as an entire pew whistled above his head. The longest part of his hair blew forward from the breeze it was so close, and he reached to smooth it down with a shaking hand and wide eyes. The ridiculously big bench swung lopsided into the wall, punching a hole through the plaster like it was a break away prop, tumbling end over end to crash feet away from a cowering Sam.

"Close call." Sam groaned, a poof of white dust from thrown debris surrounding him.

"Any closer and we'd be in the back seat of my car." He grunted, standing up.

"Dean!"

There wasn't enough time for an evasive maneuver, the bench was traveling at Autobahn speeds inches off the ground. It caught the back of his knees and sent him flailing over the seat back to fall on the other side face down. He jumped up quickly from the undignified position, turning to see Sam awkwardly straddling the tipped over pew that had nearly crushed him against the wall.

With a dazed frown, Sam toppled off, sprawling unceremoniously on the floor. "This sucks."

"God damn bastard coward _bitch!_ " Dean had crossed from calm, collected determination to exasperated rage. "This pussy's too cowardly to manifest himself, so he's just going to throw shit at us over our salt line." His voice carried across the room, clearly an antagonistic taunt rather than helpful information.

In what was undeniably a response to the insults, the carpet in the center of their protective circle tented up, like an invisible hand had pried it from the tacks beneath, and dropped flat again. The resulting ripple bounced the salt into the air where it hovered dramatically before disappearing back into the carpet.

"…Shit." Whispered Sam, resigning himself to another ass kicking.

"You…" A thundery voice spoke, slowly and carefully, picking the words from an unfamiliar language. "You unclever humans. Why would table seasoning have hurt me?"

The voice was so loud that both of them covered their ears in an attempt to block it. All this accomplished was prove that it wasn't only coming from around them.

Not knowing where to direct his anger, Dean had resorted to glaring around at every inch of the room. "We thought the sodium might help your attitude problem. Why don't'ch'ya show yourself like a man? Or are you to afraid to face someone that isn't a little old granny or a religious nut?"

There was a jarring series of bangs, like someone beating on a bass drum, causing both men to flinch. It was laughter.

Sam nudged his brother's arm, pointing to the farthest arching window. The beautiful stained glass was back lit by the moon outside; Dean squinted at a hint of movement at the top. Bright colors were shifting, bleeding down like a fresh water color painting. They watched the shapeless blob of color move from one window to the next. It crept, serpentine, toward them, the poorly imitated laughter still booming in their skulls.

"Listen, we understand that you're not a local," Sam's wide, panicky eyes betrayed his calm tone. "We don't care about killing you, you just have to stop hurting people. We have a ritual that could help you get back to your world-"

The resulting peal of condescending laughter was so loud that plaster shook loose from the ceiling. "My world? My world holds no beings so receptive and accepting of manipulation. I do not plan on returning when you humans are so in need of my guidance."

Pursing his lips in rage, Dean pulled a pistol out of the concealed holster around his chest and fired at the currently morphing stained glass. Usually, he'd be the first to agree that humans were easily manipulated sheep, but he felt defensive of his species when they were bad mouthed by outsiders. It's more or less how he felt about Sam.

The glass splintered but didn't fall and the gun in Dean's hand flew up, smacking across his face and landing clear across the room. Other-wordly chuckling accompanied it.

Dean put a hand to his mouth to catch the sudden flow of blood from a split lip and a sizable gash on his chin left from the pistol. He folded his other arm across his chest and looked at Sam. They both raised eyebrows, silently agreeing on one thing- they were in way over their heads.

The strange distortion had moved to the last window in the row. There was a loud tearing that caused Dean to grimace in distaste; it sounded close enough to the internal sound of ripping flesh to set off his Hell PTSD. A leg had appeared, sticking awkwardly from the glass like bad modern art, and its match quickly followed.

"What do you want?" Dean asked, much more threatening than Sam's attempt at persuasion. "I promise you we have calvary on hand that'll back us up if necessary, so why don't you just move on before this shit gets ugly?"

They watched in bemused horror as the colors from the window morphed into a physical body. Steel toed combat boots planted on the ground with a thud, boot-cut jeans settling from the bright hues of the decorative glass to dark, crisp denim. It wore a khaki colored t-shirt underneath an unbuttoned forest-green overshirt. Topping off the ensemble was a brown canvas workman's jacket.

"The worship that these… _cattle_ feed me, it's such a _rush!_ " The voice was changing along with the appearance, becoming more human, more tangible; only small and echoey like it was coming from an old Ham radio struggling for reception. "It's like if your damaged ass found a geyser that spews hard liquor," A fully formed man stood facing away. He turned, shaggy brown hair ruffling in a breeze that had no natural source. "I'm not about to leave because two plaid wearing man-children with daddy issues tell me to."

John Winchester grinned mockingly at his two boys.

"You sonofabitch." Dean breathed in quiet rage, his eyebrows pulled severely together as he glared at the immaculate copy in front of him. "You shift into something else- Jay Lo, Carrot Top, I don't fucking care. Just change."

It laughed, John's white smile painfully nostalgic. It took a step that flashed across the dozens of feet between itself and Sam, wrapping a hand around his throat and lifting him into the air with no time for protest. "I can't do that, boys." It said with a warm smile.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, firing his shotgun at the monster. Its jacket tore, fluttering against the barrage of salt, but otherwise remained completely unaffected.

Sam kicked at it, gripping the arm that held him up tightly, struggling to ease up the pressure on his neck. He stared down into his father's smiling face. His lip curled up in a silent snarl and he spat right at the grin.

It dropped him and he stumbled, gasping, before catching a superhuman backhand to the face that carried him yards away. Slamming into the wall, he tumbled down and slumped across the floor, where he lay disconcertingly quiet.

"Watch your mouth."

John had spoken those exact words to Sam before, after a very similar assault, and Dean was so overwhelmed by the memory that he was momentarily startled into inaction. His gut was twisted and his mouth felt like he'd swallowed sand as he re-experienced the emotions of that night.

It was the first time John had used physical violence on the youngest son; Sam was seventeen then. All three of them had been in a dark alley, hot in pursuit of a case Dean couldn't remember. What he could vividly recall was Sam making one of his comments about Mary not really being his mother because he couldn't remember her.

John's reaction was so sudden that it might have been knee jerk. The backhanded smack had been hard enough to spin him around, falling against the brick wall behind him for support while drops of blood trickled from his nose.

Dean had stood by then, watching helplessly. He'd followed his dad's orders like a recruit desperate for praise- but there was one order he'd received enough times to superseded that. An order he'd received so much that he still heard it in his dad's voice.

_Watch out for Sammy, don't let anything happen to him._

He knew it was pointless even as he rushed forward, wrapping his arms around the monster in a tackle that accomplished nothing and burying his pocket knife hilt deep in its chest.

It shook him off without a thought, removing the weapon and curiously examining it. "Is this all it takes to kill one of you?"

From where he'd landed on the floor, Dean slowly rolled to his knee, trying to stand.

It smiled wider as it watched him struggling to rise, waiting until he had almost regained his footing before flicking the knife at him. The blade dug into his shoulder, causing him to fall back and yell in pain.

It laughed, delighted, like a little girl playing with a kitten. "You see, son, I feed off of mindless, unconditional worship. No offense, but you primates kind of specialize in that. It'd be wasteful of me to not partake."

Gripping the handle, Dean jerked the knife out of his shoulder with a gasp. He tossed it to the side and pulled out his last weapon; the nickel plated .45 tucked into the waistband of his pants. Grimly, he began unloading it into the monster bearing down on him.

The bullets didn't earn so much as a flinch. It tore the gun out of his hand with an apologetic smile before violently bringing its knee up into Dean's chin with a crack, knocking him back to the floor. "And this kills as well?" It pulled back the hammer, excitement on John's duplicated face. "Yes, I can feel the death in it. I like it." A heavy kick landed on Dean's stomach to show enthusiasm.

Still watching Dean writhe on the floor, it swung the barrel around, pointing stiffly at the unconscious Sam. "How many do you think it would take to finish off his life?"

Dean coughed, blood and saliva escaping his mouth. He propped himself up on his elbows, scowling in contempt. "There's not enough bullets in this state to kill a Winchester for good."

It brought the gun around before he had even finished smirking defiantly and squeezed the trigger.

Dean's gurgled cry trailed into agonized panting as the shot tore into his upper thigh, but he couldn't hold back the anguished yell as a second bullet ripped through his shoulder and came to a jarring halt against his collar bone.

"Dean, Dean-y, Dean-o." It emphasized every warmly spoken nickname with a kick to Dean's stomach. "I look at humans and I see their desires, their need for a figurehead to follow blindly. What do you think I see when I look at you?"

The edges of Dean's vision were darkening, creeping around him like cloud cover. His body was attempting to checkout from the pain hotel and he shook his head against it, trying to stay conscious.

"I see this _pathetic excuse_ for a father hanging over you, consuming your subconscious even after all this time. You're _delicious_." There was a crunching sound and a scream from Dean as it stomped on his arm, snapping bone. "Daddy's deliciously damaged soldier."

His sight was shaking, and he idly wondered if it was a result of reaching his pain threshold.

"What a waste."

Dean stared straight down the barrel of his own gun. An elegant silver weapon, it had been a present from his dad on his sixteenth birthday (actually about a week after his birthday, suspiciously gifted to him right after Bobby had showed up with a present of his own, but that's just semantics). He didn't even flinch when the hammer fell.

But he definitely frowned when nothing happened to him. He looked around, counting shots in his head. There should have been one left and it should have… Oh, there it was. Hanging in the empty space between himself and the monster.

John looked from the bullet to him, just as confused as Dean.

The shaking wasn't an effect of his vision.

The already shattered glass of the windows exploded outward as all the lights in the room flared glaringly bright before popping like firecrackers, raining shards everywhere.

The creature turned its Winchester meatsuit to Dean with an animal-like snarl, lunging forward only to be thrown back by an unseen force. It slid across the floor half-crouched, still on its feet.

Dean's view of the raging monster was cut off, replaced with a brown leather coat surrounded by a golden, glowing aura. What looked like wings but must have been shadows, or maybe a trick of the light combined with the lurking unconsciousness that still tugged at his mind, extended from Castiel's back. They stretched so far the tips pushed against the walls on either end of the long hall before curling behind him. The illusion settled around Dean before disappearing, and he felt warmth brush up against his exposed skin.

Words echoed around them, every syllable shaking the ground like an earthquake. " _Vade retro satana_." The Latin was ethereal and frightening, full of calm anger.

Dean had been on the other end of the angel's rage once, and he was honestly relieved to be behind him now.

The meatsuit's resemblance to John was all but gone; the body looked like it was deteriorating away into the static snow of a dead television channel pixels at a time. It was bent at the waist, ready to attack. "You smell like that human, in the worst way. Did daddy's little boy grow up to be a fag-"

It never finished the sentence.

Cas grabbed it by what was left of the physical body, holding it in the air while it writhed and flailed. He muttered guttural Enochian, the church again shaking with power.

Dean's brain was reeling. He was trying to process what he was seeing, what Castiel was doing. There was a hole tearing in front of them; a rip in the emptiness that couldn't possibly have been torn.

It was like a smudge on a camera lens that made Dean feel sick to look at directly.

" _Hi homines custodiantur_." Cas tilted his head, pulling the beast down to his eye level. "These humans are protected." He tossed the figure at the portal.

There was a shriek and a brilliant white light; when it faded, monster and portal were both gone.

Dean immediately thought of a joke involving a big fucking mosquito and a supernatural bug zapper and began laughing. The laughter quickly turned to pathetic coughing as he struggled for breath. He stared above him at the twinkling stars, each one disappearing with a friendly wink. Before the last bright pinprick vanished and he slipped into dreamland, he thought with a weak smile that Cas must have removed the roof so he could look at the sky.


	9. Chapter 9

An agonized scream jerked Dean to consciousness with the jarring abruptness of a deployed parachute ripcord. His immediate panic eased slightly when he realized the screaming was his own; that was much easier to deal with. He clenched his teeth and willfully choked down the pain filled, belligerent howl.

"Dean, can you hear me?"

He stared glassy-eyed up at Castiel, who knelt between his outstretched legs on the roomy back seat of the Impala, red smudged up and down his arms. Dean's stomach gave a familiar little lurch at the sight of so much of his own blood.

Cas had a silver pair of tweezers in one hand with a deformed, blood soaked slug held between the prongs. The bullet thudded to the floor when he dropped the tweezers onto the open first aid kit beneath them.

"Where'ssammy?" Dean gasped out slurred words, blinking as he tried to make sense of his blurry double vision.

"I'm right here, man." Sam spoke laboriously slow from the driver's seat where he sat hunkered against the door, one hand on the wheel and the other arm wrapped tightly around his chest. "That last shot nicked your femoral artery, Cas just pulled out the bullet and now has to-"

" _Fuckin' ow!_ " Dean swore through his teeth as Cas knotted a strip of denim around his thigh; cinching the makeshift tourniquet as tight as it would go.

"Tie off the wound." The younger man talked sluggishly, as if every word left him surprised that he was still awake.

"Please stop trying to push me away with your right arm, Dean; the bones are severely broken and you're hurting yourself more." Cas' quiet monotone seemed anything but apathetic combined with his wide, anxious eyes and deeply furrowed brow.

"Can' you jus angel wave me into not hurtin' so friggin' much?"

The angel's face fell; a quick exchange of emotions crossing his usually stoic face. He stared down at Dean in wordless regret.

"No, listen, he burned out back there," Sam mumbled from the front seat, glancing out the driver's window at the abandoned road before switching lanes and speeding up even more. The speedometer needle wavered between 95 and 100. "Castiel here summoned enough power to knock a hole in our very existence, it must've been like surging an entire building's electricity through a single outlet. That's why we're driving instead of back at the hotel with our feet up and _Casa Erotica_ on. But seriously, Cas, burnout aside; that was completely bad ass."

"Thank you, but you weren't even conscious for that part. And Dean says we're not allowed to watch that together anymore."

"Tha's right, we're not," Dean had settled his disturbingly numb right arm across his chest and sort of nestled into the seat, feet braced against the door as a way to fend off the continual waves of pain.

When Cas looked down and moved his hands from the hunter's thigh, Dean gripped drowsily at his arm, as if to ensure he wouldn't leave. "Jus' weird with Sammy there, we should… do that… but jus'… youanme…"

Color flushed under Cas' facial hair and he caught Dean's searching hand in one of his own. "Yes, whatever you want, just as soon as we get you properly cared for." He ignored the searching stare Sam was now directing at him in the rear view mirror, leaning down and angling his back in an attempt to focus only on Dean. "I'm so sorry, Dean. I did the only thing I could think of and now I can't heal you."

"It doesn'… bother me, man," He was speaking slower with each word, eyes fluttering closed in increasingly long blinks. "'Nuff that you saved my ass again, you don't gotta go being Doctor Sexy… ontopathat…" His eyelids finally gave in, and Cas couldn't get anymore than deep, nonsensical muttering out of him.

"I hate to ruin the moment, but you can't let him fall asleep." Sam said urgently. "He's lost too much blood and had way too many head injuries."

"What do you want me to do?" He asked, desperately shaking the non responsive man beneath him.

"Smack him or something!"

Cas reached up at the command, but his hand hesitated by the bruised, swollen face. With a defeated frown, he gently cupped Dean's cheek, eyes flitting from each visible injury before settling intently on his bloodied, slightly parted lips. Without knowing exactly why, he bent over and, as softly as possible, kissed him.

With a dreamy groan, Dean leaned up as he pulled away; lengthening the kiss even while mostly unconscious.

Surprised by the response, Cas broke away, pushing him back into the seat with a worried frown. "Don't-"

Eyes still closed, Dean caught the front of the angel's shirt and pulled him down as he lay back.

This time, the kiss was hard and tasted dull, like iron; heat swam to Cas' head and he forgot where they were and why there was blood between their lips. He closed his eyes, unable to get his vision to stop spinning. Dean's big, skilled hands were running through his hair, up under his shirt, leaving goosebumps everywhere they went.

The bed shifted beneath them when Dean lifted the smaller man up, firmly guiding his legs to either side of his own waist and rolling to a kneeling position. Cas was now in his lap, legs wrapped around his back.

It took Cas much longer than he'd like to admit to realize that Dean should not have been able to use both hands for anything, let alone picking him up without a word of exertion, and that there should be no bed to shift beneath them. He pulled back, staring in surprise at Dean's perfectly unmarred face. "I think I healed you. And moved us to the hotel. I have to go get Sam."

He stared back, brilliant green eyes half closed with sleepy lust; teeth dragging softly across a full, unsplit, bottom lip before settling on a seductive smirk. "Nah, man. I've just passed out from the pain, don't worry about any of that." Tightening his fingers in Cas' hair, he angled his head back with a soft tug, moving his mouth to the exposed neck. "I'm not about to be Sam blocked in my own fantasy."

"I couldn't take an active, sentient role in your dream. We're both still conscious and I have to-" The hot whisper of breath on his throat followed by the barest tracings of teeth froze his concerned protests midword. "Dean…"

"Shh," Dean's hand migrated from Cas' hair to his cheek, sliding a calloused thumb over his opened mouth. "I want you so bad, I could write an eighties rock ballad about it."

"I… I want you, as well. I'm not entirely sure how to…" Cas was becoming flustered, his face bright red as he shadowed Dean's roving hands with his own, not sure what else to do. "But now is not the time for it, I have to-"

Dean grabbed Cas' hip and bucked up, grinding against his crotch just as he slipped the tip of his thumb between his lips.

Cas could do nothing but moan, confused and aroused far beyond his comfort zone. He wanted to tell Dean to remove his thumb, but found he could do nothing more than encouragingly run his tongue against it instead.

"See? It's so much better if you just let it happen…" Dean had managed to undo the belt and was now working on the button on Cas' slacks, pushing further down than might be necessary.

The hand at his waist and knuckles softly grazing his erection was too much for the angel.

Finding himself suddenly groping empty air, Dean frowned around in confusion.

Cas stood at the end of the bed, cheeks bright red as he struggled awkwardly to get his belt back on. "Dean, we are _not_ in your dream and now is _not_ the time for sexual promiscuity!" He reprimanded the human in a deep, angry tone.

With a little head shake, he stood up and walked over to him. "I'm sorry, Cas. I… wasn't thinking clearly. Let me help-"

The moment he grabbed either ends of his belt, Cas closed his eyes and let out a little scoff. He stiffly moved Dean's arms back. "That doesn't help anything."

A cocky grin broke across his face. "I know, thought I'd offer anyway."

"I'm going to go get your brother, don't go anywhere." Cas demanded once he'd stopped shaking enough to buckle the belt. He was stopped by a hand on his arm.

"Maybe just… heal him and let him drive around a bit?"

Castiel smiled slowly at the hopeful suggestion.

Sam's pressing questions and accusing stare proved too much for Castiel to ignore, so he left Sam at the hotel with his brother and left on 'urgent angel business'. The Winchesters had a very short, booze free celebration at the hotel room together before Dean announced he was far too exhausted to stay awake another minute.

When Sam got up for a late night piss, he was hardly surprised by the extra body in his brother's bed. Obscured by the covers and Dean's arms, he didn't need to see a face to know who it was.

 

***

 

They were up and packed early the next morning. Neither of them enjoyed hanging around once a job was done, and this one in particular they were anxious to put behind them. It was time to ramble on.

"I gotta take this call from Bobby," Dean announced when his cell rang. "You finish loading up and I'll go check out." Sam shrugged at him in a 'maybe I will, maybe I won't' gesture that he ignored.

"What's the word, Bobby?" He asked, counting out the needed bills from his wallet and stuffing them into his back pocket.

"That's what I'm calling to ask you!" The familiar, gruff exasperation brought a smile to Dean's face. "I can't get a hold of either of you two idjits all night and this morning I'm hearing all these crazy reports about mass graveyard desecration and a missing church roof! Did you two dumb asses blow the church up?"

He laughed at the question, like they were fondly recalling drunk hijinks from a rowdy night out. "Actually, no, that was not us. That was Cas. And he didn't blow it up, he 're-applied the atoms that it was composed of elsewhere'. He also single handedly whammied the big bad back into it's own dimension; I'm tellin' ya, he went full Return of the Jedi."

Bobby was silent for a moment, processing this new information. "I see. That brings me around to another question; why is there a picture of the two a you kissing like newly weds popping up on every corner of the internet?"

Dean drew a breath in through his teeth, trying not to grimace. "Yeah, about that. There was a… _fangirl_ groupie of Chuck's shitty books that caught us at the exact wrong time. She black mailed me into letting her get the picture."

"She caught you at the wrong time? What the hell were you guys doing?"

"Well… We…" He sighed. "Remember when you told me that only someone an angel loved unconditionally could remove one of his feathers? Well, I'd already taken one from Cas at that point…"

"What are you… Oh!" Bobby's laughter was muffled, like he was trying to cover the mouthpiece, but still audible and full of mirth. "I forgot about that. Sam told me to tell you that to poke fun at your special angel time. You know how easily he feels left out- he's been like that all his life."

"Oh. Hm…" Dean was squinting ahead, barely aware of his uncle's voice. He was trying to sort out if this new knowledge changed anything. He flashed back to the daring rescue at the church, the desperate attempts to heal and comfort him without angel magic, the excited, quizzical stare he saw when they kissed. He smirked. _'Doesn't change a thing.'_ He thought with a shrug. "Well, we made out a few times anyway."

This time, a full minute passed in silence while Dean paced impatiently outside the door to the front office. "Bobby?"

"Yeah, sorry. You and…?"

"Cas. The angel. Yeah."

"Huh. It's about time he got some, maybe it'll help mellow him out."

Dean smiled so wide that he felt indecent; no one should look that pleased in public. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Whatever. Try not to blow up anymore churches."

"No promises."

The grin he was wearing melted away as he pushed open the door and stepped into the office. Zeppelin's _Traveling Riverside Blues_ was playing from unseen speakers and the fresh, tangy smell of hot apple pie filled the small room.

The blonde from before was leaning seductively against the counter in front of him. She wore a form fitting halter top, a faded Guns 'n Roses logo stretched across her perky breasts. An impossibly tight, leopard print mini skirt hugged her curvy hips and a worn leather jacket covered her shoulders. She bent to fix her heeled boots just as he walked in, and he gaped at the perfectly toned ass swaying to the beat of his favorite song in front of him.

"Oh, dear, I didn't see you there!" She straightened with an airy giggle, posing carefully to accentuate all her best qualities. "Could I interest you in a piece of pie, Mr. _Winchester?_ " She said, offering a still steaming desert straight out of a Betty Crocker cook book.

"Haaah," Dean gave a short laugh before swallowing hard, worrying subconsciously at his shirt collar. "No, that's, no, I'm a cos… a cos…" Oh god. He couldn't remember what she'd called them earlier. He couldn't remember much; he'd just caught sight of a tiny devil's trap tattoo peaking above the girl's skirt, and he was helplessly studying it, the tip of his tongue held between his teeth. "Uh, LARPer… Is… what I am. And I need to check out."

"You seem to be doing enough of that already, Dean." She said with a giggle, her boobs somehow pushing out even further. "Listen, man." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "I know."

He scoffed in disbelief, rolling his eyes at her cleavage. "Yeah, what do you think you know, sweetheart? Cuz I'm not betting on much outside of the choreography to a Whitesnake video."

"Oh, believe me, I know that, too…" She bit her lip and winked, causing Dean to groan inwardly. "I also know about you. You're no cosplayer, you're the real deal. The real Dean Winchester."

Folding his arms, he looked in her eyes, staring her down until she looked away with a blush. "That's crazy."

"See, that's what I thought, too! But there's this total psycho on the main fansite who's been insisting for _months_ that she'd met the real Sam and Dean. She claims that the books are prophecy. After I posted that picture the other night, She wouldn't leave me alone. Don't get me wrong, she's crazier than a bag of cats; her screen name's 'Samlicker81' and she's the admin of the _Wincest is Best_ RP board. But I think she's on to something this time. And if she's wrong… you're hella hot, I'm not really out either way."

Dean blinked. "W-Wincest? What's-?"

The blonde shook her head adamantly. "If you don't know, I'm not telling you. You're missing my point, Dean." She got a little giddy every time she said his name, and he knew he needed to bail. The Kathy Bates vibe was back in full swing; but god help him, maybe Misery wouldn't have been so miserable if she'd looked like this chick. As she got closer, he found his feet incapable of moving.

"I know all the things you've done, I know what a hero you are." She sashayed closer, hips swinging hypnotizingly. "I think you deserve more groupies than Mick Jagger at his peak."

"Listen, lady, as much as you are _so completely doing it for me_ , believe me, a week ago I'd have you bent over that counter like your chiropractor," She groaned when he said this, closing her eyes and grabbing the front of his jacket, still swaying enchantingly. "But I've got, uh, a, I've got uh…"

"He has a prior engagement." Castiel finished as he grabbed the girl by the back of her heavy jacket, lifted her from the ground and set her down a few feet away before closing in on Dean himself. He grabbed the collar on his coat, roughly jerking him into a kiss. He slid a hand down, seemingly reaching for Dean's ass, instead removing the wad of cash from his back pocket and tossing it carelessly at the girl behind them. They both disappeared.

Dozens of bills fluttered down around the startled fan. She slowly put her hands to her face, mouth open in shock. "Oh my god." She turned slowly, looking directly at the barely noticeable webcam clipped to the back of her open laptop and the hundreds of people watching the direct stream online. "That went _so much better than expected!_ "

 

***

 

On a back highway interconnect hundreds of miles away from civilization, the black Chevy swam smoothly through the darkness; yellow headlights cutting the path ahead.

From the front seat, the desert ahead seemed endless, stopping only where it melted into the brilliant skyline. Dean was smiling contentedly at the stars above, softly drumming his hand on his thigh to the melodic piano of REO Speedwagon's _Can't Fight This Feeling_ that had randomly picked up on the only radio station they'd been in range of for hours.

Sam sat in the back seat with his feet up, one of those stupid clip on book lights illuminating the small paperback he held almost right to his nose. He didn't seem bothered by the music, and Dean probably couldn't have stopped himself once the singing started anyway.

"What started out as friendship, has grown stronger," He sang along as quietly as possible, nodding his head to the music. "I only wish I had the strength to let it show."

Sam's eyebrows had shot up, but he kept his expression carefully neutral, eyes fixed on the John Grisham novel in his hands.

"Cause I feel so secure when we're together, you give my life direction- you make everything so clear!" The further into the song he got, the louder and more dramatic his singing became.

Ignoring it was nearly impossible now, and Sam covered his face with his hand, fighting off the laughter. If you encourage him, he'll never stop.

"And even as I wander, I"m keepin' you in sight! You're a candle in the wind on a cold and dark winter's night! I'm getting-"

"Window."

Dean froze mid drum-fill, putting his hands back on the wheel and frowning at the rear-view mirror. "What?"

"Candle in the _window_ , not _wind_."

His lips immediately pursed in a spot on impression of Sam's own bitch face. "Art's open to interpretation, Sam."

"But that's not interpretation, that's just being wrong- _ow_!"

A tap on the brakes was all it took to rock Sam forward, banging his head against the seat back.

"Oops, sorry, there was a," Dean coughed in an attempt to disguise a snicker of laughter. "An armadillo. A big one."

Rubbing his head and frowning, Sam settled back. "Listen, Dean, we gotta talk."

"Aw, come on, man. If this is about singing, you know I gotta get at least one out a day. I kept my pie hole closed through all of _The Wall_ , you can let me have this one."

"No," Sam said with a laugh. "But I do appreciate the limit. No, I mean we gotta talk about Cas."

He stared stonily ahead, light hearted humor completely gone. "Go back to your weird law porn, I promise to keep the volume down."

Sam shook his head, sitting up and leaning into the front seat. "I'm serious. I'm not judging you or anything-"

"Damn straight, you're not. There's nothing to judge me for."

"Yeeaaah. Yeah, I know. It's just, I mean, are you sure he has the same… intentions as you?"

Dean didn't respond. His knuckles were white around the wheel, and his slight frown seemed plastered on.

Wishing more than anything that he'd say _something_ about it, give him a read on how he actually felt, Sam pushed on resolutely. "I'm not talking about sexual stuff-"

"Oh _god_." Dean scoffed in disgust, glaring out across the empty desert.

"Dean, you're Michael's vessel. You're _kind of a big deal_ to the heavenly crowd. I just… I don't want you to get invested in something that's just another cosmic power play…" He actually tensed as he said this, his body bracing for violent repercussions even though Dean was still driving. As long as he didn't pull over, Sam was likely safe from physical counterarguments.

Dean tilted his head, lips pressing tighter against each other, but stayed silent.

With another sigh, Sam frowned deeply, sincere worry in his puppy dog eyes. "I just don't want to see you go through what I went through with Ruby."

The brakes complained shrilly at the sudden stop, the stench of burning rubber filling the night as the rear of the car fishtailed ahead of them. Dean had barely angled it onto the shoulder before he was jumping out and slamming the door behind him. He stood on the edge of the road, body tense, shoulders squared.

"Dean!" Sam scrambled out the door, tangled legs causing him to tumble to the desert floor before straightening and walking around the car, reaching for his brother. "Just talk about this with-"

Dean caught his wrist and, with a spin, swept a leg under Sam's, slamming him against the Impala. He had twisted his arm expertly behind his back, restraining him like a felon. "I do not believe this is a constructive conversation for the two of us to be sharing in." He was forcing a calm, mocking smile as he held tightly against Sam's struggling. "I believe the best course of action is to drop it and pretend it never came up. Don't you agree, Sam?"

When Sam didn't answer, he gave him a shove. "Huh?"

Sam looked mad enough to kill regardless of family relation, but he gritted his teeth and nodded once.

Releasing him, Dean waited until he'd turned around to grab the front of his coat and yank him down to his eye level. "If you ever compare Castiel to that demon _bitch_ again, we'll have problems."

They stared in anger at each other until Sam gritted his teeth and knocked the other man's arms back. He stalked to the car without a word.

Resting a hand on the top of his car, he slowly exhaled the breath he'd been holding. "Hey, you wanna pick the music?" He asked as he opened the door and stepped into the warm glow of solace.


End file.
